Revelio - magic over memories
by R.V.Wells
Summary: Auror Potter feels the ground and gasps, the illusion broken, as Auror Granger, very much awake, reaches for their objective. He swells with pride. His partner. His. But then it's she who drops to the floor. He crawls to her side, not knowing nor caring where is his wand, or the colour of the magic winding around them. (Harmony ending, epilogue compliant, no bashing)
1. Prologue: Empty nest

Aurors. Partners. Bonded. An intimacy of essences no one shares with Hermione, not even her husband. Yet, once your house is empty and the Golden Trio move together –to Hermione's, no less; a place that mysteriously enhances the craving–, it's harder not to realize it's not enough. Her magic calls to you, yours to her, even as you train her sister. While discerning, try not to miss this new menace whose source is so close to you. You might find clues, to all of that, in the flask she forgot she always carries in the secret pocket of her beaded bag.

* * *

Things you might want to know:

This was meant as a sequel to Obliviate, but you don't have to read this one to understand Revelio. With this whole project I followed the canon as much as I could, to have read Deathly Hallows should be enough.

This is rather different from Obliviate. There, they were teens. Now, they are Aurors. Rowlings don't explore the entrails of this work, day to day, and I haven't read fics that do, so I had to design some details, and for those, I WON'T TOLERATE PLAGIARISM. You can use the elements giving the author(s) credit for them. If you write a good fic about Harry and Hermione being Aurors together, please let me know, I'd love to read and comment. Anyway, the Bond I illustrate is influenced by the one imagined by Koslow for Beauty and the Beast; so not my idea, either.

Impure for a harmione? Well… I'm dealing with all of Rowlings' scenes, respecting even the epilogue. Romione was Rowlings' baby, not mine. Obviously this is not a romione, but I'm walking on very thin ice here because those supposed to be married have to behave as such: even if Hermione doesn't love Ron romantically, she cares about him as a friend, and can't reject him all the time, can she? Only two paragraphs in the whole fic treat the subject, but again, if you can't stand it, just skip.

To compensate, I had to create a relationship even more special than marriage for Harry and Hermione, and the partnership thing enabled me to do so. I became a fan of it.

That would make you wonder how I feel about Ron. In truth, I pity him. I can's see how he'd fill a bright lioness like Hermione. To have her body while trying to reach her heart and soul, just to realize over the years that he'll never do so because Harry holds them both without as much as a chaste kiss... I won't treat Ron as trash. His life is enough of a hell as it is.

Also, Harry and Hermione are Gryffindors, therefore loyals, and Ron is their friend, so under the circumstances serious breakthrough in the harmione relationship might take several chapters or so. It's as excruciating for me as it is for you, with the difference that you may skip that initial drama. Though you might lose some of the intrigue.

(It would have been real easier to just vanish Ron, but I think the golden trio is part of the charm of the series. They all are friends. I'm working real hard at making them look as such despite the obvious love triangle.)

But you are here to read the story, not me digressing. So that's it. Hope you like it/don't hate it.

* * *

Prologue:

Empty nest

_Hermione peeped over the bunch of files she was working on, to find Harry, feather almost hanging from an inert hand, gaze lost beyond the parchment._

_"Go home already" she suggested._

_That earned her an intensely green gaze through lightly crooked glasses, and the lioness felt that void in her stomach. Familiar._

_"But there's still work to do" Harry commented, confuse._

_"Honestly…" the witch huffed and her eyes rolled dramatically, she even crossed her arms behind the files, but she was smiling. "You are of no use like this. And someone must stay with the kids, right? Go."_

_"You should go" the wizard muttered, standing up and stretching. "You keep being Al's favorite"_

_"Don't be silly" the witch said, but Harry could feel a smug smile hiding inside his partner._

_Brown curls caught the light as she woman stood. Harry followed, dazzled, as she guided him through the labyrinth towards the elevator, which stood in front of them with singing voice. They ignored it as he asked._

_"You sure it's all right?"_

_"Sure"_

_The empathic connection between partners echoed it. Hermione closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth, so alike to drinking hot chocolate in Hogwarts' winters. The warmth focused on her front as Harry placed his lips there, in a distracted, routine kiss that conveyed no less love because of it. _

_"Call me if something happens. And please, don't linger here for too long"_

* * *

She turns, ducking to avoid a curse, and other reaches her. Blood spills from her forehead. She barely groans as she deviates another and casts her own, two, three in rapid succession, as fast as she can spell them.

Other Aurors fight, but not beside her, not anymore; they have managed to separate them.

Yet, Hermione, in the center, gets most of the attention. Her whole body is enlightened by curses despite it being the darkest hour, before sunrise. Her dragonhide vest has saved her life over three times tonight; she has seen death coming, with no time but to think of Hugo, who today will ride the Hogwarts express for the first time. But her wand strikes and slices with the superb efficacy of the best trained Auror, and the enemies fall, one by one. One of them, barely a teen, hypnotized by her movements, gets stricken by a stray Avada, hers being the last reflection in his eyes.

A high pitched laugh reaches Hermione's ears, and she turns just for a moment, but she can't let the Parkinson b–witch distract her.

"Arrest me?" she says between laughs. "You can't even reach me!"

"Five" Hermione cries intermittently between spells. "Soon… you'll have… no men… to hide behind."

The black–haired witch counts swiftly, and her smile falters, but when she steps forward, it's to cast a curse that Hermione avoids easily. Then, she hears Max's cries. She nearly turns around, and it would have been her death. She avoids narrowly another light, but she has managed to see her colleague's tortured, twisted body.

"You traitor!" the word sounds cursed ––being, as it does, behind whore and irresponsible in her list of worst epithets.

The laugh, again, and another rush of spells. She bends and tries to breathe through the fears, the sorrows.

"Me, a traitor?" Parkinson whispers seductively. "What about you? You –ah, so loyal– Gryffindor. You have a pureblood for a husband, and still took the scarred thing as your partner. No Slytherin cheat a spouse like that. Not even an ally. Potter has guts after all. And the cuckold goes and wears the robe of Minister!"

"Don't speak of them like that!" Hermione can't stop herself from yelling.

There is a scream, and Hermione stops for a second, stricken by the possibility of it being Harry; another curse cuts through her right shoulder as she remembers he isn't here, but she's actually relieved. She clenches her teeth as she smells the blood. She didn't recognize the voice. Maybe it wasn't one of hers.

"How is it?" Parkinson gaspes, genuinely interested. "Sex? They say it's amazing, feeling what the other's feeling and all…"

The lioness stumbles, and curses fly over her head as she rolls and stands again, never stopping casting herself. Another man falls to her wand. His last jinx is repelled by her bracelet –typical Harry, protecting her even without actually being here.

Somewhere Parkinson's voice still shrieks but Hermione tries her best to ignore her. If the witch is speaking, she isn't casting. Another enemy falls with a soft thump.

Then, Parkinson's tone changes dramatically.

"Or are you still is denial?"

The auror stares at her briefly, something cold filling her stomach even before she understands. The Slytherin's eyes are wide open, her mouth slightly so, an expression of amazement and glee the Gryffindor instinctively despises.

"You are, aren't you? Pretending Potter is a friend… pretending…"

"He _is_ my friend, you…"

The laugh fills the darkness, and Hermione has forgotten to count enemies, and suddenly something is burning her right flank, making her cry out, more from surprise than from actual pain.

"Oh, you Gryffindors are so much fun! And what is to happen if you fail? If… No, when… you acknowledge it? That you're yearning for him, aching for him, dreaming…"

Green light almost reach the Slytherin, and her smile just pales for a moment, before growing wider.

"Come on, Granger. You know it. You know you can't hold it back. It's a matter of time. I can't imagine you leaving your precious partner unprotected. So you can just move forward. Whether you like it or not, you are already on the path of… well, betrayal…"

Suddenly, sounds of apparition, and shadows approaching. The auror doesn't turn, still dulled by Parkinson's absurd thread of thinking. On auto-pilot –duck, cast, watch out-, the witch dances with death another three times or so, until her wit comes back, just slightly ahead of the shadows. Just in time to realize that their identity don't matter anyway. If they are enemies, she's as good as dead. In that second of not knowing, she thinks 'Oh, Harry will kill me this time'; the dropping of her spirits deny any humor in the joke. Lily is riding the Hogwarts Express today, and he will be left completely alone in that enormous, dark house where he widowed less than two years ago. A house also sheltering memories of his lost godfather. 'He'll have Ron' she reasons and stops thinking of anything other than the curses still striking her enemy's shield. But her soul still aches with a sorrowful yearning, an echo of a thought she doesn't dare express, even to herself: 'I thought he'd be there, at my death. I thought his would be the last face I'd see'.

And then, Parkinson drops the wand, and she hears Luna's chanting voice, and almost faints with hope.

"Parkinson, you have a right to remain silent…"

Dawn has just stretched its rosy fingers through the sky.

When Luna's team has taken care of the rest, and they are back in the headquarters, and the healer has patched her up as well as he can, the blond woman lies a hand on her shoulder and Hermione nearly drops from exhaustion and the light weight of the hand that was meant to reassure.

"Nargles told me it was a trap" the blonde woman whispers dreamily.

"How many casualties…?" Hermione's throat tightens.

"Incredibly, none" Sparkie joins the talk, an unmistakable spark of admiration in his voice. "Max is pretty shaken, but will recover. It's you who is badly hurt."

The lioness' eyes wander around, fixing in the no-so-magical devices she managed to integrate into the Auror force. Only those things that would work in a place so charged with magic.

"What I am is exhausted. And leaving" Hermione whispers as she stands. "My kids are waiting for me since yesterday. I hope they have packed."

But as she walks into the empty hall guiding to the headquarters, it all reaches her at once. The waves. The warmth. The awakening. She suddenly realizes her bracelet has been burning for a while –just another discomfort, mixed with the pain and the fatigue, barely noticeable under the circumstances-. Now she notices. Now she shivers violently, and pants without fully recognizing why.

Harry is there.

Black cloak. Black pants. Black vest. Pale skin under the burning scar. The only touch of color is his eyes –his electric green eyes, almost dark also, tormented-. His smell reaches the witch –summer grass and spearmint-, and she breathes it as if it were oxygen, as his arms come to surround her, holding her so tightly that they actually shake. And when he forces himself to put an appropriate distance between them -holding first her cheeks, then her shoulders, shaking her a bit before the pain in her right one gets to him both by her cry and their bond-, his magic still clings to her –to all of her- feeling her body almost sensuously. She knows she is being checked for injuries, she knows his magic is reinforcing hers in a healing balm, and yet, in her fatigue, her self-control slips enough for her to feel it. Heat seems to engulf her until he speaks.

"You went alone" he spits, violence barely masking a fear that surpasses it. "Merlin, Hermione. Why did you go without me? What if I had lost you?"

"The kids…?"

"They are hardly toddlers! Why didn't you call for me?"

"We didn't know…"

"You fought…!"

"Please let me talk, Harry! I can't explain if you don't listen!"

He holds back his words, holding her gaze in a way that nearly makes her dizzy. What was she speaking about…? Oh! The lack of sleep must be affecting her most than she thought.

"It was supposed to be easy" she lectures quietly, and a bit apologetically. "Routine. Apparate and read her rights. You were with your kids, Harry; they have no one else to help them in a day like this…"

"I don't care!" his vehemence quiets her at once.

They look into each other eyes, and a full chorus of angels pass by as their gazes convey what words cannot. Gazes don't carry the sound of his voice, though, and she is grateful when he speaks.

"You know. You know I had been there at once. What do you think I feel sensing you hurt? What do you think it made to me when I heard…" he bit the last words, "when I heard that you had fought an entire squad, almost by yourself? That you were in danger? That I wasn't there? Knowing that it was because I left early, because I didn't come with you…"

Butterflies bat colorful wings against her skin, even as she whispers:

"I don't need…"

"You do! What is the bracelet for?" he pleads now, eyes shining. "Tell me, Hermione! We Vowed. We don't fight alone anymore!"

She indulges in the chaste exchange of warmth that nonetheless makes funny things to her stomach –as it always did-. His hands rest on her back, pressing her to him. And all of a sudden, this alarm goes on, as if something cried: "Too close". And as usual, there come the forbidden names that assure the world starts rolling again.

"Ron must be frantic" Harry says. "He must have received the report by now. He must know you were hurt."

* * *

When she apparates home, first thing she sees is Ron holding their daughter, his chin over her head as his hand brushes her back. He looks almost as exhausted as the woman. Something like guilt threaten to engulf Hermione. Rose has fallen asleep, partially supported on him. Not even his voice awakens the girl:

"Bloody hell, Hermione!" he whispers energetically. "Why did you have to go? Why you?!"

"I'm an auror" she replicates logically. "I signed up for this."

"Harry didn't go! And you have kids too…!"

"Don't lecture me, Ronald" she interrupts, rolling her eyes, but with no energy left to fight. "That's my line, not yours".

In truth she is moved. And guilty. And trying to masks both moods. Her gaze has flied to the girl, and she sits beside her carefully.

"Did she sleep at all?" Hermione asks.

Ron just reaches for her hand, anxiety showing in his face. She knows he would rather hold her -reassure himself that she's alive and well-, maybe shake her too. She lifts her other hand to the child's forehead, but her fingers are tainted with blood.

"Hugo is asleep" Ron whispers.

"I'll go take a shower."

She squeezes his hand, grateful, and leaves. She knows his fear. She knows how hard it would be for him to raise the kids alone. She sees it every day in Harry's eyes.

* * *

The cages and the owls inside are unusually quiet as Harry and James push them through the barrier and into the platform where the Hogwarts Express waits, as red and warm-looking as always. They are cold, though. Even if their breaths don't sparkle like two years before, and the morning is warm with the last shreds of summer, they are pale and chilled inside. Lily, the youngest, seems to have had a close encounter with a dementor, that empty she seems, despite being her first year in Hogwarts. Her mom is missing. And they miss her. Dearly.

Hermione stands near the barrier purposely. A second before seeing the first of them, her inner self welcomes him. A partner thing. Her soul recognizes his presence. If it was a sound, it would be the softest, the most magical humming. If it was a sight, it would be bright as a patronus, but colored as the sky. If it was a flavor, it would be bittersweet, and spicy. His magic stretches to reach her in waves of warmth. She can almost see the electric pattern that indicates that her partner is closeby.

Before her actual ears hear his pace, she is pushing Rose slightly. They already spoke about this, and for once, the teen girl hasn't even protested. She doesn't like Albus as she did as a child, but all the family is hurting too bad, and she has her mother's heart too.

Rose hugs Albus first.

Ron follows his girls.

"Isn't the dark cloud over them a little too excessive?" he whispers near his wife's ear. "That amount of mourning must be harmful for the kids."

He is taking care that no one else can hear; in recognition, she whispers her retort:

"Ron. For once. Not a single word."

They reach the barrier and she hugs each child. When she gets to Lily, Albus has already left to find Scorpius. Now they have something else in common. Harry doesn't protest. Ron stands beside him, uncomfortable.

"Lil…" the father whispers to his youngest.

The red-headed girl stares at him and he is stricken by the resemblance. Her mother, and his, as well. He stands mouth agape. Luckily, she seems to have prepared her own speech.

"I have heard… both… of you explaining everything to both of my brothers. Don't worry, dad. I'll do fine."

He swallows and nods.

Hermione has already asked Hugo to take care of the girl. They are both in the same year, both likely to get into Gryffindor.

The kids walk towards the train, seeming relieved as they approach the joyful atmosphere. Hermione sees Harry's attempts to control his expression. As usual, a ridiculous amount of people are watching him, despite the fact that his group is more or less protected by the barrier.

The witch surrounds him with her arms and hugs him tightly. After a moment, Ron joins, transforming it into a group embrace. It's nice for a moment, until he says:

"You must rebuild your life, mate…"

"Ron…" she warns him, without looking.

"It's true! I loved her too, she was my sister for Merlin's sake; but it has been nearly two years! And you still wear black. I'm actually wondering if it's for her. I'm voicing everyone's worries here…"

"Ronald!" she screams, but regains the whisper as she adds: "You are not at your office, nor giving a speech."

"That's not…!"

"I'm not sure if I want to live with both of you, even temporally" Harry cuts.

"Nonsense!" she exclaims, at her bossiest, even as she parts from the embrace. "We are helping you close your house today, and tomorrow you are coming with us…"

Then she notices that this was a pale attempt of joke; but could as well be true. She remembers how much Harry hated their fights.

"I'm sorry" she apologizes, anyway.

She keeps a hand behind Harry's back. A young girl gives her the strangest look before and after eyeing Harry and Ron. Somewhere, someone takes a picture.

"How is it going for the Minister of Magic?" Harry asks Ron after a moment. He, too, tries to be civil. It's also a most appreciated distraction.

"Well, Hermione thinks I haven't developed enough diplomatic skills…" nothing to comment to that "… but it's cool. Everyone listens, for a change" Ron lowers his voice before adding. "Hermione reviews every one of the speeches –and more than half writes them, to be fair…"

"You also help with our planning" Harry point out.

Ron's smile brightens, even as he keeps talking.

"In fact, since she's doing half of my work, I was wondering how she is really doing at her own… Something about another international dictator?"

"Oh, but that's not ours, Ron… I mean, whoever is trying to revive the British Empire, isn't causing much of a havoc here… It's more the domain of the Department of International Affairs… Aren't you getting their reports?"

She loses track of the chitchat, turning her attention to the necessary arrangements. Harry needs his friends under the same roof, for the first time since they left Hogwarts. Specially her and Ron. But also the rest; and as much as she hates parties, she has already decided to throw one, just to gather the friends he has lost touch with. She can't let him alone in this. That's what partners are for.

As they walk back through the barriers, someone approaches Ron, and he puts on the most confident of his smiles –only Harry and her would see through it- and shakes the man's hand. Only then, Harry's magic reaches for hers again.

"I'd say you are still hurt" he states.

He stands a step behind her, not touching her physically, but invisible hands are feeling her for extra wounds, brushing against her back, licking her arms until they find her shoulder. She shivers.

"OK, I confess, I really didn't have time for potions" she confesses quickly in a whisper, eyeing Ron as he appears to listen to the elector. "But you know how it is, Harry. First day. Kids to manage…"

"No, I guess you didn't" he admits. "But I want your promise that you won't go without me again. _Never ever_ again."

"Oh, shut up, Harry. You know I can't…"

"What are you doing" Ron asks, distrusting.

The elector left without them noticing.

"Nothing" they both answer at once.

Ron grasps Hermione's hand and pulls her to him in a gesture a little too evident.

Her bracelet's heat has receded with Harry's anger. She risks eyeing him. He stares at Ron. They can only speak so much in front of him, especially of their empathy, before awakening his jealousy. Silence fills the minutes, and just much later, as Ron gets intercepted again, in a voice so low that he might be speaking to himself, Harry adds:

"_Please_. I can't lose you too."

* * *

Hermione wakes up with a drowned scream. She stares at Ron, snoring loudly beside her –his mouth open and dibbling– while breathing deeply. The magical tattoo he got because of that bet, barely moves; all chess pieces sleep entangled, as puppies, and to the moonlight she sees that the knight lying its head on the black tower, where the bishop supports its back. She tucks Ron in –a boy, really, despite his age- and slides out of the bed, taking a book before descending the foreign stairs to pour herself some water and maybe find a place near the fireplace where she could drown in the story instead of letting the fear engulf her.

She has had a nightmare. Nothing new. This dream has the flavor of forest and snow, and the voice of Evil. She can't remember it. She rarely can. But it isn't that scary. Not like in her youth, where Evil walked unrestrained. Even when she walks forward to fight real dark magic, she has her training, and Harry beside her. She grasps her left arm, near her shoulder, where she can feel, instilled in her skin, the bracelet they both wear ever since graduation at the Auror Academy; the bracelet that makes them partners.

She doesn't know that, just before her waking, Harry took his hand to his forehead and scratched it, mildly upset.

When he sees the woman coming through the door, he gasps and half stands. There has been no woman in this house's nights since Ginny. For a split second, he thinks –against all odds- that it's her. Hermione notices. Her eyes fly from the papers forgotten on the table to his eyes, green hazes, still half lost. Hers meet them with sympathy. She literally feels his grief, as sobs against her skin.

"You need your sleep" the witch comments.

"I have some work to do" the wizard defends himself and avoids her gaze, not wanting to worry her.

She walks past him, takes some water for herself and some for him, and sits beside him, handling him his glass.

"I was having a nightmare, so I can't sleep" she says, trusting in half truths. "If you don't mind, I might stay… help you… or just talk?"

He smiles, relieved of having her without being pampered… at least, patently.

The book forgotten on the table, they talk quietly for hours, remembering their own first time taking the Hogwarts Express. He recalls Ginny as she was back then: a little red-headed girl hiding behind her mother; but there isn't much more to evoke of her from that year. They remember Trevor, of dear memory, thanks to whom they first met. They laugh a little and lie on the carpet.

"Sleep" she orders, transfiguring a cushion into a mattress, and making it lie on him. "Tomorrow will be another long day."

"I don't have that many things to move, Hermione. I won't stay at your place for that long."

"That too."

He stares at her inquisitively, and she rolls her eyes.

"Hogwarts' students aren't the only ones starting lessons."

"Trainees" he understands at last.

"Straight from pre-Auror" she nods, her cheek brushing against the carpet. "My sister will be there too."

She sounds sleepy. Her eyes are closed when he mutters a:

"Thank you, Hermione."

His left hand touch her bracelet, a pale imitation of the official greeting between partners that renovates the magic inside.

She smiles and touches his.

But when she hears his breathing deepen, and knows he's asleep, she opens her eyes and stares at him. Just stares. He forgot to take off his glasses, and looks funny despite the scars all around his face, and the wrinkles. And what she feels scare the hell out of her.

* * *

To be continued...

Preview:

He's aware of her slightly disheveled hair, her blushing cheeks and her panting, and of his own half-arousal - which he swiftly attributes to the adrenaline pumping through his veins-, before she stands and steps back, allowing him to breath. He doesn't wonder why he wasn't able to breath easily before, if she didn't put weight on his chest.

* * *

If you have spent half an hour of your life sharing this writing-reading with me, why not to spend some seconds telling me so? Please, do tell if you like this, and what should I improve. I'd lead to a better experience on your side and on mine.

My own review? The Kings Cross' scene was obviously a tribute to Rowlings, but it wasn't strong enough to be an opening and I spent a lot of time finding one, until I thought of that first fighting scene. Of course it's me showing her off ;D A kickarse auror, even if she'd rather have her partner with her, just for the company. I do like the family scene, beyond the identity of the spouse; it's realistic and sweet in its own way, as is the Kings Cross one. We'll move to more harmione scenes as it goes on. (In fact, where I stand now, there's maybe too much H/Hr.). Remember: This is just the prologue.

By the way, the first harmione scenes were born from hateful crítics, so thank you, whoever you are (they were guests), I adored the result. The rest of you, feel free to tell me what you feel, though I'd prefer it to be balanced: no much sense in complaining about a scene in the eight chapter without telling me why your reading got that far.

And thank you, steltek. The site itself had translated part of the text because I was publishing it from a Spanish-speaker's phone. I hope the problem is fixed now.

See you all next time.

Meanwhile, imagine the empty square under these words is a hole in my heart and fill it.


	2. Baptism of fire

In the core of the Ministry of Magic, there's a very muggle room: boring nude walls, dressing room with metallic lockers, mattresses; all in black and grey, all dusty. Not a single wand anywhere. Not a cloak, nor a tunic.

There's where Harry stands now, glassless, legs spread, hands clasped behind his waist; outfitted all in black, with clothes that cling to his shape, he truly looks military. Before him, eleven new recruits, equally uniformed. Just a difference between mentor and trainees, apart from age: the magic bracelet near his left shoulder, barely noticeable as it's now part of his skin.

As usual, the young wizards remind him of his friends at their age –a team, really-, but at the same time, they don't. 'Did Ron look that clueless at age 20?' he thinks, frowning slightly as his gaze goes from a face to the other, instantly deciding that no member of DA did. By then, Ron had sacrificed himself to a magic chess to conquer the philosopher's stone, entered the chamber of secrets, been dragged by an enormous dog only to discover that his rat was an evil wizard… and as usual Harry can't understand why isn't his mate with the senior aurors now. But he has already gone through the same thread of thought for several years, so he's barely distracted by it.

"Your auror training requires physical skills as well" he states in potent voice. "Who can tell me why?"

A hand shoots to the ceiling, and warm memories from long ago fill him as he stares at the young female recruit in the first row. Her hair is swept into a ponytail so it won't get into her eyes, but it's undoubtedly bushy. The un-girlish expression is so familiar that he looks back and forth to his partner, quietly standing in the same posture as him a step closer than the recruits. For the first time he notices the passing of time: the trainee's face reminds him more of the Hermione that was at his wedding, than Hermione herself. Not that the difference is all that noticeable. Witches live more than muggles.

"Auror…?"

"Granger" the girl completes. "We need physical skills so we won't be helpless once disarmed. Much like policemen train physically even if they have guns…"

Most of the recruits look confused at the comparison. They didn't grow up in a muggle environment.

And with that, Harry confirms her identity. Duham. Hermione's baby sister. (Their parents have a gift for names, apparently.)

"Very well" he refrains the urge to offer 'ten points to Gryffindor'. "I assume you have trained before."

The recruit smiles self-assuredly.

"I earned some medals fighting the muggle way."

"Maybe you should come here and show us."

The young witch walks confidently to stand beside him and they both adopt combat poses. Hers is pretty good. 'I thought she would last more' he thinks a second later, having her immobilized and panting between his body and the mattress. He notices her hair is a rainbow of tones of brown, just like Hermione's. Her smell is, also, very similar to that of her sister –treacle tart and leather, with a touch of pumpkin, and something flowery underneath-; the leather part evokes book covers and libraries and wisdom. A sort of tenderness makes him smile as he stands and offers his hand to her. She looks rather pissed. She probably thought she would last some more, too.

Deviating his gaze to Hermione, he extends his magic to touch her gently, feeling her as just a partner can. It's a question. He asked sooner, but still… She was pretty injured just yesterday. But she projects her own powers decidedly. No way she'll let him pamper her.

"Now my partner and I will give you a demonstration" he announces as Hermione walks towards him, a professional expression in her eyes.

They adopt their stances. The corners of his mouth move slightly upward as he looks into her warm eyes; ashamed as he feels every time she beats him in front of the new trainees, It's always a rush to try to fight her. And though she's wearing her best mask, he can see her own smile too, her expression of know-it-all, not that different once adapted to fit a combat. The silvery scars now tainting her face –result of a lifetime of fighting dark magic- don't spoil the effect. They move at the same time. He tries to punch her, but she evades; attempts to grab her, but she slides from his hands. Not once she beats him, even moving always to his right, favoring his left leg –the one injured during a mission years ago-. Yet, suddenly he feels that kick behind his other knee and is falling, and next thing he knows, she's sitting on his thighs, immobilizing his hands behind his back, all of her weight efficiently used so he can't move a muscle. He's aware of her slightly disheveled hair, her blushing cheeks and her panting, and of his own half-arousal –which he swiftly attributes to the adrenaline pumping through his veins–, before she stands and steps back, allowing him to breath. He doesn't wonder why he hasn't been able to breathe easily before, if she didn't put her weight on his chest. It's like that every time. He stands to face his trainees, which now whisper to each other and eye him dismissively; he has the distinct impression that they look down on him because he was beaten by a woman. As if that was an issue. Like each time, he demands:

"Next, all of you will come and try to beat me."

"At the same time" Duham confirms.

"Yeah."

After a moment's hesitation, all eleven of the new trainees fall on him.

He leaves out of combat each one of them quickly.

Hurt mainly in their pride, they stand again. A red-headed trainee rubs the back of his neck. A boy that physically reminds him of Neville, is privileging the right leg. Nothing a good night of sleep can't cure.

"That's the reason why you all will be here tomorrow at seven, and every day after that. You must have at least two hours of training before joining your mentors in their own assignments." He must raise his voice from the first sentence, as the general protest gets louder. "We'll all take turns at teaching and assessing your abilities. It'll still be a while before you join the Force as full trained aurors."

He stops paying attention, having just noticed the cloaked figure outstanding in his training chamber.

"Auror Potter" Luna's dreamily voice calls. "Auror Granger. May I interrupt?"

"Chief" he smiles. "The class is all yours."

Luna floats to the front.

"Now all of you will be assigned to a senior auror" the blond witch indicates, and starts reading the list.

Not one of the recruits make a comment. They all have heard about quiet water, and about Chief Lovegood's skills in battle. Harry no longer wonders what their class at Hogwarts would have thought of Luna's career.

He only pays attention once his name is mentioned. His look at Hermione is easy to interpret, and she rolls her eyes, aware that he hasn't heard why he has been named. She gazes at her sister meaningfully, a flash of pain in her eyes that don't have quite a lot to do with the present circumstances; he feels it in her soul, too, in the way her magic waves and turns blue under his gaze. The trainee has a big smile plastered in her face.

As Luna walks towards the exit, and before Harry speaks another word, she tilts her head one side, obviously listening to someone only she can, and turns.

"Buckbeack" she calls. The duet so named turns to her –Harry, straightening, as Hermione reaches his side- and waits for the order. Luna has extracted a piece of parchment and whispers 'Portus" pointing to it, before adding "Murder, two wizards and a witch, unknown responsible, rest of the team already there, perimeter assured, you may take the trainee if you want and she has the stomach". The blond woman eyes him before whispering: "there is a child, too". Harry's stomach turns, though this isn't new to them. Aurors fight dark wizards, and they tend to be less than nice.

Duham already stands by her mentor, her gaze daring them to tell her to stay, though Hermione can see also fear and thrill in her eyes. As soon as they all touch the portkey, the hook grasps them.

The place is lightened and dark –lightened by the morning sunlight, that as soon as goes through the French doors, is disfigured by a dark magic so thick that some of the personnel filling the scene is using lumos-. Cloaked technicians busily walk past them without as much as a gaze, others are levitating evidence into small isolating bubbles. Harry is mildly surprise of not having found himself in a dark alley somewhere, as usual. This must be one of the most beautiful manors he has ever seen. Art surrounds them in a twirl of classy history and bright colors. They all –commons- seem decidedly out of place here. And it reminds him of Malfoy Manor. Earthly and empathic senses extend instinctively to touch Hermione where she stands –right behind his elbow-. She feels as pale as she looks, but nods at him, and swallows. Behind her, Duham looks around, wide eyed and seeming too young and naïve to simply stay alive. She has never seen a real investigation from this close.

As he finds someone able to provide further information, he feels Hermione walking away, and almost reaches out for her. A worried gaze follow her to where she crouches, beside a sheet that visibly shelters several bodies. The darkness of the magic used on them makes his stomach turn, even from this far; he scratches his front distractedly as he wonders how young was the child, that the murder radiates so much sorrow.

"Two male and one female purebloods found dead this morning around 7" the officer informs, "as the house-elf readied the house for sale. Eviscerated alive. Spell unknown. All of them were supposed to be on Spain, where the man was moving with his family."

"Wealthy family."

The officer eyed him briefly.

"Everyone knows the Lefaye."

Harry nods. His lack of knowledge regarding the Wizarding World still lets itself be known at the worst possible moments.

"Signs of struggle?"

"Everything's clean and in order. As if an isolating spell had been used. There should be much more blood, I'd say. At minimum they used a tergeo. There's no bloodstains beyond the bodies' area."

"So no vodoo"

With dark magic dolls, almost anything can be done, but Harry has seen those scenes: the one responsible is generally not closeby for damage control.

"As far as we know… if there was a doll, she was taken. Or she's somewhere else in the manor. This place is enormous."

That doesn't say much. If the author was far, the doll was, too.

"Point of entrance?"

"Windows and doors, locked. And magical protections stand, no apparitions"

"Footprints?"

"The carpet is self-cleaning."

'Stupid fashion' Harry curses. 'If wizards knew how easy it is to kill someone over one of these and go off the hook…

"They might as well have left a suicide note" the officer goes on, obviously thinking in the same line, "but they weren't that nice"

"Who saw them alive for the last time?"

"We haven't found anyone having exchanged with them a word in weeks. They were a bit paranoic?

"Anything else?"

The man shakes his head. He looks almost green in the eerie light, and maybe because of the nausea. Harry notices his too-short nails on the small notebook.

"Come on, there must be something else"

"The house seemed abandoned, sir. No one saw anything. The specialists are still trying to determine magical signature, without results, but it's still soon"

"Heirs?"

"Besides the baby?" the passive-aggressive comment, made casually, makes his stomach switch. "We keep looking"

"The elf…?"

"Half dead beside his masters. Self-flagelation, you know… Still unconscious"

"Have you looked the muggle way? Hairs? Something?"

The officer seems a bit greener as he shakes his head. He also seems upset. Harry would scold him about pragmatism and rejection of muggle methods that might have help catch so many dark wizards, but it's not the first time and frankly it already makes him feel weary and discouraged, they never listen; wizard customs are way too rooted.

The medipathologist goes away, and his partner is starting to levitate the sheet.

With a warning look to the officer and a whispered: "work on it", Harry walks at last towards her, crouches slightly behind her and looks dispassionately to the bodies. After having seen so many of his own, die, few things shock him, even images like this one. Hermione is different. She has that expression, the one she wears when she sees something that is simply too much to endure. Talented as she is, she isn't cut for this sometimes. It tires her. It weighs on her. She seems a hundred years older.

"They made them swallow it"

"Wha…?"

"Their wands are in their bodies. The medipathologist saw the wood through the sectioned throats"

Pale, she stretches her lips in a line. His hand itches to hold hers. But she won't appreciate being pampered. His hand closes in a fist, and stays where it is. Yet his magic surrounds her, sheltering her from the dark one as much as he can. He hears her breath and whisper:

"I don't want her to see this."

Dumbfounded for a second, he finally spots Duham coming close, and understands.

"If she is to be an auror, you can't protect her from this, Hermione."

She seems about to say something, but just swallows. Her hands are trembling. She has just spotted the smallest body, skin turned over itself, nothing but a bunch of meat.

Harry intercepts Duham before she reaches them, forces her to look at him and speaks quietly to her, prepares her. When she sees the bodies, she is ready to endure it as her sister does.

* * *

"So how was their first day?" Ron asks, tossing over a butterbeer that Harry catches easily.

His best mate's smile isn't as careless as it used to be. Today has been a long day, to all of them. The political side of the Ministery of Magic can't be pleasant, either. The worst part: he can't comment. Harry would think the rest of the continuous and pointless chitchat is to overcompensate, if he hadn't known Ron way before that. Happy of having turned down that offer, Harry opens the butterbeer and looks around.

"Who" he asks.

"Hermione's sister. They told me you've got her."

A flash of pain lightens in Harry's eyes, an echo of what he saw in Hermione's earlier, as they assigned the trainees.

"How is Hermione doing?" he whispers.

Ron shrugs.

"You are supposed to feel it better than I do."

"You are still her husband."

Curiously, both are trying to keep the bitterness out of their voices. Harry is grateful for small mercies. Ron drinks some from his beer and licks his lips before answering:

"There's no way around it. It has been a while since she lost her trainee. Eventually, one of you would be responsible for some other newbie."

"Yeah, but she just got to Parkinson yesterday. And couldn't even take her down. They should have waited some more."

"I would have pushed, had I had some jurisdiction there" Ron says gravely.

He has always been protective with his wife; in Ron's world, no one can hurt Hermione, but Ron himself. Harry deviates his attention to the door behind which Hermione is drowning her sorrow in books, her usual way of coping. There must be nothing else to say. He struggles to remember their previous subject.

"Well, she is tough" the black-haired wizard shrugs. "She stood in front of a murdered baby, in a room so thick with dark magic that you could cut it with a knife, and she didn't throw up. Same expression Hermione wore seeing Colin's body, I swear. Wonder how the adoption center found a match like that."

Harry's gaze caresses the rest of the house. He hasn't been here often, all he knows is that it's in a muggle neighborhood and that the witch bought it for her parents when they came back from Australia.

"This place is nice" he comments, "I'm glad you didn't sell it."

"Hermione wouldn't even hear of it. Merlin knows we could have used the money… But it was occupied anyway. Duham grew up here. Her parents moved just recently."

"I reckon they haven't redecorated in ages. I remember furniture being in the same places."

Ron eyes him briefly.

"I didn't know you had been here that much."

Harry tries to remember, and ends up shrugging. He keeps getting that warm feeling in his gut when he comes here, especially in her kitchen or her living room, or the guest room where he'll sleep from now on. As if it came from memories of her that he can't quite place. Being here, makes him think of Hermione in a very vivid and yet idealized way. As if she was shining. It also reminds him strongly of her younger self, so similar to someone he has met just recently.

"Duham seems to be very much like her sister. She even knows all her answers" he laughs. "It's eerie. I'd thought they shared blood."

"I'm her godfather, you know" Ron ads. "Though I'm not as close as I should be. Nothing like you and Teddy."

"Well, Hermione kept her away from the Wizarding World long enough. It was hard for me to recognize her."

The door opens and Hermione comes out, her nose stuck in a book. She's wearing worn-out pajamas, and her hair is a mess, but Harry smiles slightly at the view.

"Do you like her?" Ron asked suddenly.

Harry's alarmed gaze goes from Ron to Hermione in a "what?" gesture that Ron overlooks.

"Duham" he points out. "Do you like her?"

"No! No, it isn't like that at all" Harry's voice sounds vehement. "Merlin, Ron. She is almost James' age. Hell, she could be my daughter. I held her as a baby…"

"… and rarely met her ever since" Ron finishes for him. "And she's beautiful, like… well, like Hermione. At the best age…"

"Hermione isn't old!"

"I'm not old."

They both had spoken at once and their eyes meet as Ron apologized profusely. Even from the other side of the room, Harry sees the golden spots in her irises, how they dance in the changing light. He drinks the rest of his beer without breathing, and surely without thinking 'hell, I'd change anyone for her anytime'.

"You know I didn't mean it like that!" Ron was saying. "It's just that she is malleable, no extra complications such as ex or kids. It would be understandable of you..."

"And a little clichéd, don't you think?" Hermione scolds him.

Harry feels something weird in her, something very similar to fear. He's about to ask, then decides maybe she doesn't want anyone to know. Cradling the empty bottle in his hand, he changes topics finding another argument.

"And I have a wife…"

"Had, Harry" Ron corrects in a whisper, eyeing Hermione warily.

"… and no wish to replace her!"

Turning around, he notices Hermione is eyeing them carefully over the thick book. All of a sudden, he remembers his body's reaction to today's training, and he can almost hear her comment: 'Well, your body doesn't agree, does it?'

"Merlin, Ron. Where do you get those ideas?!"

"Please tell me you aren't the one matchmaking" her voice sounds, as she stares at Ron, pursing her lips before and after the question.

Ron raises his hands at once, looking slightly scared of his own wife.

"Nothing to do with me, swear. I'm not even close to the auror departament. It's actually good to know."

The woman eyes him suspiciously but doesn't make another comment before going into the room again.

"She's very protective with her sis'" Ron comments and chuckles: "Even more than with us."

Harry nods, remembering all those times when Hermione would leave work early to babysit.

"I don't envy the girl's boyfriend. He won't know what hit him."

* * *

Preview:

She tried not to admire the view of him cut against the grey sky. She was honestly trying not to see how his head leaned forth in a thinking posture that made him look poetic yet real, his male scarred hands grasping the stony ledge, his green eyes almost grey as they took in the view. She wondered how the wizard of the story had managed to get out his own heart. She kind of needed the same spell right now.

* * *

Author's note: Hell I loved that first scene.

The best thing about an auror fic is that there's physical contact.

How did you feel about their practice? ;D

I'm not one to introduce new characters to the fics, but Duham was necessary, and she soon became a favorite of mine. What to say? She's Hermione all over again, and she's fresh and funny.

I hope the detective scene was realistic enough.

* * *

Reviews, please. (Even if it's just to tell me that you hated someone's tunic)


	3. Lie to yourself

_"Concealment and disguise are essential to survive" Luna informed, as she walked in the seemingly empty room._

_Her wand pointed to a slight deflection of the light near the wall, and a young woman cursed, no longer invisible._

_"Dark wizards won't hesitate in killing you on the spot, if they get even a glimpse of you" the blond woman answered, and, turning around, she resumed her absent pace. "To conceal, is to keep yourself safe… most of the time… You cannot trust allies to find you, either."_

_A young man blinked, unaware that he wasn't part of the carpet anymore._

_"You must trust your determination and skills. Otherwise, you are all alone."_

* * *

"I can't believe you are running late again, Harry" Hermione protests, watching him over the folder she has been carefully studying.

The wizard smiles as he rubs his hair with the towel, and watches her eyes return to the document. The strength he puts on the task lessens. Today Hermione is wearing beige. It suits her.

"You don't have to wait for me" he points out.

"Don't be ridiculous"

The witch approaches him and dries his hair with a wave of her wand, and moves to adjust his robes, arranging its neck with the ease of experience. He is, as usual, taken aback, but she never wants to hear about it and he lets the shiver come and leave and the warmth fill him as a humming wave of her magic. The folder floats beside hers. She grasps it before turning around.

"Come on" she orders, handling him a sandwich with a hand as the other grasps his. He tries to hold her back for a sec to put on his shoes, but he's still jumping on one foot as she steps into her chimney and right into Ron's private one in the Ministry. Greeting his secretary, she walks towards the hall that leads to the aurors' headquarters. The auror finally manages to keep up with her by the time they reach it. Beatrice greets him brightly and he smiles uncomfortably before being pulled to an empty seat.

"I hate meetings" William is complaining, again; a summoned pillow his hands behind his head, and he leans back, a bit too comfortable. "It was livelier when we had death eaters to fight, and didn't have to fill the time with pretty words."

"Leave it" Hermione whispers to her partner, without looking at him. "You should be eating instead."

Harry, who has been eyeing his colleague with murderous eyes, deviates his gaze towards her as she answers the magically modified cell phone and starts speaking in German. The pang of jealousy he feels seeing her smile, vanishes as his bracelet turns blue cold under his skin. Her eyes are narrowed now. He hopes it's not bad news, and keeps looking at her even after Luna has floated to the center of the room and started speaking.

"What was it?" he asks in a whisper.

"Nothing, I hope" she answers, and pushes her lips together in a tight line.

Teams leave as they are given their assignments. The room is half-empty by the time Harry stops giving her wondering gazes.

"Buckbeack" Luna calls at last, "you have kept up with the new findings."

"We have" Hermione answers for them.

Harry basks in his luck. He hasn't. But trust Hermione to cover for him. She always did.

"Then you know where this leads" Luna makes an old baby shoe levitate towards them, and Harry catches it easily.

"Where are we going?" he asks in a whisper.

Hermione looks at him severely and then the portkey activates. Her expression is so familiar that it amuses him. Anyway, the smile dies as soon as he realizes where they are.

Azkaban.

"What are we doing here?" he asks, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

Not every day he goes to prison without warning.

"If you had read the memos" Hermione explains calmly, "you would have known that the Lefayes have relatives here."

"Here?" Hermione nods. "Death eaters?" he asks again, and she nods once more.

The reference sounds strange in his own voice; so many years without using those words –even if other aurors did often-. Not that he could spend months without thinking about all those teenage years (their whole adolescence, really), but it has all been in the past. He hopes it still is. Her slight frown –so small that she must think he hasn't seen it- worsens the fright he feels. However, it keeps been impossible.

"It has been twenty years, Hermione…" he answers, green eyes narrowed with dismissal. "Voldemort's sectaries are long gone, to Azkaban or to hell, and those remaining are safely tucked away, not to say, a little bit too old to think of newfound glories."

He sounds defensive, and her gaze flies to where Harry's hand rest now: over his front.

"Harry, it's not me who sent us here" she reminds him. "It's just a lead. The only one we have, really."

"Relatives?" he asks again.

She shrugs.

"Not close ones. Besides, the victims were too young to be death eaters themselves. Nevertheless, you know, everything regarding the wizarding war make everyone's hair stand on end. So we have to check."

She feels his distress subside slowly as he supports his body against the wall beside an antique window –the only one in the room, and probably more ventilation than the prisoners have access to-. Azkaban sure must be a much happier place since dementors has been vanished from it, but it keeps being the worst prison ever. The greyness of the walls and the melancholic sound of the waves breaking against the rocks keep them quiet as they wait for the officers. A moment later, Harry perches on the window. The view is amazing, the sea giving them a taste of infinity… and of their own insignificancy. Not that the prisoners would enjoy it, in any case. It's bearable just because they are heading home tonight.

Hermione stares at him, instead.

She tries not to admire the view of him cut against the grey sky. She's honestly trying not to see how his head leans forth in a thinking posture that makes him look poetic yet real, his male scarred hands grasping the stony ledge, his green eyes almost grey as they take in the view. She wonders how the wizard of the story managed to get out his own heart. She kind of needs the same spell right now.

His voice gets her out of her dreamy state.

"Hermione…" he turns his eyes to her, piercing. "About yesterday…"

"What about it?"

Her walls are raised instantly. He looks baffled.

"Oh, I just… thought… I hope you don't mind…"

She sighs and tries to be more open.

"You can ask, Harry" she encourages him.

She can't think of anything she did yesterday that would prompt uncomfortable questions. Not that she ever does anything that would.

"It's just… Yesterday, when Ron spoke about your sister… well, I thought I felt… I might be wrong" it isn't probable, but he has learned to leave ways out of itchy questions, "I thought I felt fear in you. I hope it's not me causing it."

She freezes. Hell, she sometimes still forgets. Actions, she can control; feelings, just mask, and that's so tricky…

She hopes he hasn't picked on her latest moods.

She realizes he'll notice if she lies.

"Actually, I think it is" she sighs.

He just blinks.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I guess…" She hasn't given it a lot of thought since the previous day, so she makes and tests her conclusions at the same time by speaking them aloud. "I guess it's just my own middle-age crisis. Duham is young and talented and beautiful and not even in a different way, she's practically me, eighteen years younger! And being replaced…"

"But you are too, 'Mione."

She stares at him, tilting her head to one side. He seems lost for a moment, as if it had slipped from his lips without him wanting it to.

"I mean… you speak as if you weren't beautiful or talented or… well, I guess you don't have her age but why would it matter?"

She smiles brightly, and for a moment he remembers a very similar conversation they held twenty-three years ago. Funny, how he remembers things that happened a lifetime ago. As long as they have something to do with her.

"Thank you for that, Harry. But you know? Men tend to love us more the younger we are… and they aren't wrong: Ron's arguments are solid…"

"So you were worried about me not loving you…?"

Her smile freezes and she frantically explores his feelings through their bond. After a second, she breathes: he has stated the obvious conclusion, but he hasn't really weighted it or he wouldn't be so casual. She almost lost the rest of his speech while panicking.

"… or preoccupied about being replaced by her as an Auror, or as a friend? What does one thing have to do with the other? And with me?"

Hermione is still wondering what part of his statement describes her better. And worried that it might be the first. After what seemed an eternity, she answers.

"I honestly don't know, Harry. Maybe I'm scared that if you get a new girl you'll forget about your old friends…"

"Did you feel that way with Ginny?"

'Now that you mention it…' she thinks.

"It would be worst with a new girl" she answers tentatively. "At least Ginny grew up with us… fought by our side… But by no means I want to be a burden, Harry! I mean… if you are ready to restart your life… love life, that is… I'll be all right. Nothing has to change because of it."

But she sounds lots sadder than she meant.

* * *

The man's hand closes in a fist just before grasping the phone.

"Speaking" he greets.

"Your hounds are here."

His office has a great view, but it does nothing to distract him from the words.

"You know someone would get that call. I can't stop it from happening."

"Then I can't stop the rest from happening" the voice claims darkly. "Your time is limited. Call them back. "

The intermittent sound of the device informes him that he's no longer heard. Not that his fears and hopes would get a welcoming ear from the man to whom that voice belong.

* * *

"Hermione, stop!" Harry cries desperately, trying to get past her shield.

His spell bounces, again, making reverberate the powerful energy she has summoned, through which can barely hear her screams. The expression of the guard before her wand is easy enough to interpret. Even with their image so distorted.

"Hermione!"

The wizard has cast a muffliato over the scene, covering her back, but sound or no sound, the officers must be about to come, he can maintain an illusion just for so long, and he doesn't know if this kind of behavior would be accepted, even from her, who has the cleanest file in the entire Force. And seeing how impeccable she has been until now, he can't quite grasp the change, when or why. It isn't as if the dribbling woman on wheelchair, eyes lost and mark fading on her wrinkled forearm, should have shocked her so; for Merlin's beard, she deserves what happened to her! That, quite probably, have been an enormous amount of Crucios received from her master's hand, though Harry agrees twenty years is quite a long time for such sequels to appear.

But this is serious. Hermione is attacking a guard, and all of a sudden he is confusedly aware that, of all the rules she would have chosen to break, this is the one that would have her kicked from the Auror Force. He can't quite grasp the idea of losing his partner. He simply fights with all he has.

There, her shield cracks. He forces his way through it, holding his breath as he manages to pass through what seems frozen jell-o, then pulls her hands to her back to stop her wand from pointing at the man, simultaneously immobilizing her. The man fells from the height she put him to, sit on the floor, and immediately starts panting and crying something about crazy witches and demands. Harry registers his friend is shaking violently. Without thinking, he points his own wands towards the guard and obliviates him. Hermione no longer seems about to jump on anyone, Harry lets her go slowly to put the man in a magically induced sleep.

Breathing in sync with his partner, he allows the momentary peace to settle. The dribbling woman near the corner is now clearly visible; the shield has disappeared. With the death eater's mutter, bubbles of saliva come from her mouth.

"Hermione?" at last he asks.

The sorcerer leans back, on his chest, dropping her head. The essence of pumpkin and treacle tart surrounds him now, mixed with that unique aroma of her that only surfaces with adrenaline, and he closes his eyes. Plenty of times, she has taken him out of the frontline, bleeding and in excruciating pain; that smell means safety, and comfort, and thrill. Even now.

"Hermione?" he gently makes her turn, hands on her shoulders. "What was this?"

"You shouldn't have obliviated him, Harry" she pants. "You can be in serious trouble."

"We'll be in trouble together, then" he answers. "Not that it's new. I just want to know what happened. This is beyond good cop – bad cop. It's clear that you were interrogating him, but that's not the prisoner we came to interview."

The woman shakes her head.

"He put the prisoner in this state."

"Wasn't she sick before?"

"Her chart didn't mention anything like this" Hermione argued. "The judge decided to deprive her from her freedom, not from her health. And from what I'm seeing, a dementor could have been called to her."

Harry stares at the woman, and agrees.

"What, do you want to investigate the treatment they give to prisoners?" it would be just her, to pick another cause to defend. "Does this go beyond the case? And why are you blaming him?"

Hermione closes her eyes, breathes in, deeply. All she sees, is the Lefaye heir, his skin turned inside out even as he lies in his baby blue sheet. She can't answer to his latest question. She doesn't know. Hers is logic, not instinct. The guard didn't reveal a thing, scary as she had been. But she watches the unconscious man, and sees a tiger mask over his features.

"To interrogate her will be useless now" she answers instead.

"Obliviate him you too" Harry asks. "Just in case."

This time, there is a tiny smile in her lips as she turns towards him.

"I trust your spell, Harry" she says. "I'll add some memories, though. Let's put everything as we found it."

Hermione takes care of the man, as he moves the woman's wheelchair towards the table. "Knight" she was muttering with a weird smile. "Walpurgis". He doesn't pay attention to any of it.

* * *

Review, please?


	4. Matter of trust

_"Stealth is probably one of the most important things for an auror" Harry lectured._

_The recruits were firm in front of him, none of them meeting his gaze. There were only seven left, and they were learning quickly to act like professionals. At least, in front of the authority. Also away from it, if they knew what was good for them._

_"You need to follow your objective without being seen or heard. You must keep the secrecy. You must be sneaky and smart. If you are a Slytherin, maybe those elements are already part of you, but if you are a Gryffindor, everything in you will scream against it."_

_"Dark wizards are Slytherins…"_

_Harry stared to the impulsive newbie. He was so very young._

_"… Sr" the young one completed, inhibited._

_He looked like Neville, now more than ever. Maybe because of the fat the training hadn't yet disposed of._

_"And you are?"_

_"Hunter, Sr. Michael Hunter."_

_A name bigger than its beholder._

_"Then, Hunter… Must we just kill all Slytherins to recreate the earthly paradise?"_

_The rest of recruits laughed, girls covering their mouths and blinking a little too often towards the professor._

_"But the real difficulty" he continued lecturing, "is to pay attention, as you move. Not to get distracted. Not to miss what's right before your eyes."_

* * *

As teenage girls, they run under the rain towards the telephone box. Muggles mustn't see water-repellent spells. Hermione puts an arm around the younger witch's shoulder and makes her come in first, before glancing nervously around and drying their clothes with a wand, as well as her own book.

"You OK?" she asks.

"It's just water, Mia" Duham jokes. "Wow, the space here is restricted."

"You should have seen the first time we came" Hermione recalls. "We were six." For a moment she remembers Harry's hands, wet with nerves, as he received the badge she passed: 'Harry Potter, rescue mission'. She smiles nostalgically.

"I think I've heard that story somewhere" Duham says wryly. "Can we move now?"

Hermione hits her head with the book, and the girl pretends to be hurt as her sister dials, murmuring: "I think those were his exact words".

"How come that you went to pick me up?" the younger asks, as the golden light extends to their knees.

Hermione tightens her lips in a line.

Actually, Azkaban's events have left a bad taste in her mouth, a sense of imminent danger. Among confusion for not knowing its origin, shame for having lost control, fear of not knowing why –not to say, of going mad-, more fear of being discovered, she hasn't been able to sleep for a minute. What's clear to her is that she does not want Duham to walk the streets alone. Nor Harry. Of course, she didn't explain that to him when she left him in the ministry earlier than ever and went to pick up her little sister.

"Mia?"

"We are at work" she attempts to distract her. "Here, it's Auror Granger, for you."

Duham follows her, eyes on her. She sees through the technique the auror hasn't bothered to mask.

* * *

Harry takes his gaze from the pale frightened boy in the interrogation room, to the two women beside himself.

"Should we let her go in?" he asks his partner.

He's caught in a flash of fear that leaves him confused, but when Duham turns to her sister, she nods.

"You've seen enough theory and pre-auror training" she says through the lump in her throat. "You'll do fine."

Harry puts his hand on his protegee's shoulder, and pushes her slightly forward. But when the girl goes through the door and, through the enchanted wall, they see her approach the suspect, only Harry's hand prevents his friend from following her.

"This one isn't violent, Hermione. In the Parkinson hierarchy, he's just a pawn" he points out. "The girl will be fine."

Hermione doesn't look at him, but she pulls out her wand and, with the other hand, squeezes his. Loose standard interrogation phrases reach them. For long minutes they only observe. Hermione has extended the wall reflection of the face and voice of the suspect, looking for microexpressions, but continues to direct nervous glances at Duham. The fear is still there.

"What's going on?"

"Not the time, Harry" she cuts.

The wizard casts a spell around, to protect them from other people's ears, and asks again.

The monotonous words of Duham -her voice, hiding perfectly the nerves of the first time- don't serve as a distraction.

"You didn't choose me to question him" Hermione states, without looking at him. "Is it because of Azkaban?"

He silently stares at her.

"I trust you, Hermione" he says at last. "Some burn-out síndrome won't change that".

"It's more than that" she points out. "If they find out... I've been doing some research, Harry... A guard is also a law representative. An attack addressed at him in his workplace can be interpreted as helping the prisoner escape. For aurors, it's military court."

The concept freezes them, and their eyes meet only for a second, until the sorcerer puts an arm around her shoulders. Her resistance is weak, if there at all.

"Nobody knows" he points out. "Stop worrying…"

"If they kick me out of the Force..." she interrupts, but she doesn't find what else to say, until the words come out by themselves: "I don't want to leave you alone."

Harry makes her face him and looks at her, before wrapping his left hand around her bracelet.

"There still isn't a way to reverse the effects of the empathic potion" he reminds her. "You won't leave me alone."

But she's already huffing.

"It'll be very useful with me too faraway to cover your back."

"Hermione, protecting me has been your full-time job since I was eleven. Don't you want vacations?"

"Of course not!" she protests vehemently.

He laughs, with that childish expression that never stops taking her breath away. She finds herself hiding her own smile behind lips tightened in a line, where Harry suddenly fixes his gaze there. And just like that, the room doesn't have enough oxygen.

"I'd like to hear you laugh more often" he says absently. "Sometimes I feel like I no longer remember the last time."

Shaking his head, he turns to the transparent wall. Hermione closes her eyes. It takes a long time to remember what they were talking about.

"About the guard" she articulates, more to distract herself than out of true interest. "I checked his background, he's clean. Of course, he wouldn't be working in Azkaban otherwise. I know where his family lives, his routine..." Her tone is one of despair, but it takes a while before words force their way out of his mouth. "What if I attacked an innocent, Harry?"

Harry does care, but honestly ... only Hermione would be concerned about the morality of her actions, more than about what they could do to her if they found out. He isn't so innocent as to not know that prison is a possibility.

He doesn't know what to say.

As he turns, the door opens and he barely has time to remove the spell before Luna slides into the room. Anyway, after smiling to them distractedly, she ignores them altogether. She doesn't even seem to stare at the interrogation room, but at some point near the ceiling. Throwing nervous glances at her, the subordinates return to their functions, watching their trainee lose patience until she picks up her papers with feigned parsimony and returns to their side. By then they have realized that they have missed the important part, and can't ask in front of the boss, who precisely at that moment seems to realize that they are still there.

"Have you seen Ron today?" the blonde asks.

"Of course we've seen him, Luna" Hermione replies patiently. "We live together, remember?"

"Oh! But I'm sure he'd like to see you right now" she replies dreamily.

Hermione tries not to roll her eyes when her chief refers to another non-existent creature, while Harry excuses himself and, with a last look at the trainee to whom they should have paid more attention in the previous hour, takes his partner's hand and pulls her out with him.

"Where are we going, Harry? The case…"

"We can't learn now anyway" he says. "Let's go see Ron."

Hermione digs her heels into the ground, and her partner turns around in surprise. With a spell that isolates them from indiscreet ears, the witch asks him.

"What for?"

Through Harry's head a multitude of answers passes. In fact, he realizes, he's used to discuss his problems with both of his best friends, and solve them among the three of them. With most cases, it's not necessary, but now it's about a third of the trio itself, the girl to be precise, and to say that it's emotionally involving would be an understatement. However, this isn't like in the old days. This time it's his partner who acted in an inexplicable way. And Ron is the authority. Although this one is also Gryffindor to the tip of his hair, and he never minded violating rules for his best friend, this matter is serious. Hermione herself would insist on being reported, if she wasn't so afraid of being separated from her partner. If she didn't fear being forced to leave Harry without her personal protection. He mustn't put Ron in that situation.

In his memory, the childish laughter of his friend the previous day, while hunting chocolate frogs.

"We cannot tell him, Harry" Hermione says. "He is the Minister. He cannot cover for us. There are legal consequences for these matters. And for covering them from a political position."

Harry nods, weary.

"But Luna says he wants to see us" Hermione huffs, and Harry hastens to point. "Luna generally isn't wrong. Call it nargles or instinct…"

The sorceress shakes her head but precedes him on the way to Ron's office.

The redheaded wizard receives him with the same tense smile as in fourth year.

"I thought your case wasn't high profiled" the minister greets him as Harry moves to let Hermione in, her expression as closed as his; after years of being aurors, masks are a reflex. "What brings you here?"

"Well, the chief told us that you were expecting us."

An uncomfortable silence weights on them as the aurors sit in front of the superior. Until Ron, addressing his wife directly, asks.

"Why did you attack the guard?"

The woman tenses. Harry's bracelet begins to shake as she must be trembling inside.

"What do you mean?" she asks guardedly.

The hurt in Ron's face doesn't go unnoticed to his friends.

"The guard who was obliviated in Azkaban, was being watched. It's known that he was attacked by an female auror on the day and time you were in Azkaban, and it's also known that measures were taken so that it wasn't known. Now, you could have told me. We could have arranged it together..." Harry is about to whisper a privacy spell, until he remembers that in Ron's office it's pre-installed, "... but now someone else knows, and if the Auror Department hasn't heard, I'm sure it will soon, even if I don't inform it myself. What I want to know is who obliviated him."

"I did"

"Harry!" his partner whispers.

Everyone turns to the blackhaired wizard. Hermione looks scared, her eyes going from Harry to Ron, and her partner suspects that she is about to take more blame than she has. Ron, on the other hand, stands up, out of anger. Harry guesses it has nothing to do with broken rules. Now, if it's because they hid this from him, or specifically foaddressed to him for sharing a secret with his wife, Harry doesn't know. He stands up at the same time, making a conscious effort not to reach for his wand immediately, but watching over Ron's.

"Put the wand down" this one orders Hermione, who only grabs it more forcefully, challenging him with her eyes. "It's not easy to cover an attack to the minister in his own office. We don't want the whole Auror Department here, summoned by the anti-spell alarm, do we?

Harry and Ron look at each other across the desk, hands in fists.

"I imagine you know" he addresses Hermione, without taking his eyes off her partner, "what will happen to both of you if they hear about this. If I had known, I would have covered it... yes, Hermione, I would have done it, should it always surprise you...? But it wasn't me who discovered it, someone else knows. The info hasn't come through official channels, so the Auror Department isn't aware. What I can do for you is this: you get out of the case right now, and concentrate on training the recruits. Focus, Hermione" he orders, seeing her instant denial, "your obsessive trait of personnality won't help. If not, they'll know. And not from me."

Harry's shoulders have relaxed just a bit. Hermione looks from one to the other, all the time remembering the details of the case they were working on while a large part of her mind displays the younger Lefaye's body. It's almost over her strenght of will even to think of leaving the case just like that, seemingly before having started, but they have no alternative. She irrationally feel blackmailed by her own husband, though she knows it's not him, but her frustración, speaking.

"I'll ask Luna to transfer you quietly to another case, any case. Something very low profile. Now leave", he sighs, and sits down, looking more tired than ever.

Harry leaves first, and the door closes before Hermione follows him. She turns to Ron, waiting.

"You were protecting him" the minister whispers, not looking at her.

"How…?"

The first one releases a bitter laugh.

"When have you gotten into serious trouble, if not to protect us... him...?"

Truly, Hermione hadn't considered it –she really didn't know what had possessed her, to act like that- but when Ron asked her, she knew he was right instantly. She knew that the shield had been, more than anything else, to keep Harry away from the threat while she neutralized it. But she still doesn't know why she saw that guard, a little younger than her, who brought the prisoner to them, as a threat.

"Do you love him?"

"What…? Ron..."

Her lips tremble a little, and silence stretches until she realizes it's up to her to elaborate.

"We thought you had gotten over it years ago... Before the kids, actually..."

Ron laughs bitterly.

"But there is a 'we' that evidently does not include me".

She doesn't answer. How to answer that?

All of a sudden, he is over her, his mouth on hers, demanding. His arms holds her tightly, even while keeping a distance from her left arm, always overaware of the bracelet, as if its touch harmed him. Hermione mirrors his actions tamely, until he pulls away and, blunt as always, asks:

"Why don't you respond?"

"I thought I was doing so" she answers confusedly.

He tries again, and again, but her lack of passion is evident, even for her.

"I'm sorry, Ron" she whispers as she feels him go

She doesn't dare raise her gaze, fearing the hurt in his eyes.

"I just knew" he says darkly. "I've known for a long time. Sensing that you feel more while training with him than while making love with me. Hell" he laughs bitterly, "there is more electricity when you look at each other from opposite sides of the room, than I've ever experienced firsthand."

"Don't be silly, Ron" she sighs.

"Do you think that I don't know why you declined taking over transfiguration classes, back when McGonagall took the headmistress position?"

She don't answer, again.

"You wanted him to be protected" Ron answers for her. "You trained day and night, even in the physical field –which you often despised–, so you'd be his shield."

"Harry needs one. I did tell him not to become an Auror, but when he did…"

"You would have loved to keep being the best of the class, and now, getting paid for it. But you left it behind, and never looked back, simply because of his own chosen work."

He sounds like a cornered beast. She raises her hand, knowing that there's no way she can reach him in the abyss of despair he's leaving for.

"I also love being an Auror, Ron…"

He turns around, evading her gaze.

"You know I worship you, 'Mione, but to be his sidekick... it takes its toll."

"I am his sidekick" she interrupts, before he specified where, "you are Minister of Magic…"

Two knocks on the door, and Harry comes in, smiling guardedly.

"Part of my team stayed behind..." he says.

The witch takes one last look at her husband and leaves, muttering an apology. Harry's eyes narrow as they turn to Ron.

"What happened?"

"Oh, just training for a third child…"

"OK, no need for details" the black-haired wizard says through clutched teeth.

"Wonder why?"

Blue eyes meet green ones with barely concealed rage.

"I don't discuss with you Ginny's favorite positions."

Ron seems a bit taken aback, and the silence stretches. Then, he shrugs. There is something in his expression that Harry is familiar with, and although honestly it does not seem like the time for it, Ron isn't one to choose proper timing when it comes to Hermione... or to anything else, really. And considering this reception, Harry is almost certain. Closing the door, he asks.

"Jealous, again? Tell me it isn't that."

"Go, Harry" the redhead says.

Harry sighs.

"Mate, you should be so over this. We have been partners for twenty years. Why did you say you were OK with her taking the damn potion if you couldn't stand...?"

"She'd have done it anyway!" Ron yells, taking him by surprise.

Harry stares at him, finds him panting, more rage in his gaze than he has seen in a long time.

"She wanted you safe" the redheaded wizard explains, rage barely held. "She wouldn't have let me substitute her, even if I had become Auror. I don't know why she doesn't trust me, or only my skills, but…"

"Is that why you didn't"

It's not a question: it's a revelation. Harry looks into his friend's eyes, and fights for words. He needs the right ones for this. Focusing on Ron's twitching right hand, he elaborates:

"Ron, I'm not threatening your relationship with her. I wouldn't do that to you, and I wouldn't endanger her. And your relationship, by the way, unlike other marriages… Well, I'm living with both of you, and as far as I can tell it hasn't faded..."

"But that's the thing" Ron insists, his voice devoid of emotions. "Nothing has ever changed. I'm still the guy who didn't take her to that ball, and you are the man she'd follow through the gates of hell. I wear the ring, but you wear the bracelet"

Harry looks away, a little breathless, and messes up his hair.

Ron's pace finally seems to take away some of his anguish. Harry follows him with his gaze, sees him produce a bottle. The golden light of the fancy room reflects on firewiskey. Harry takes the glass he's being offered.

"What do you really want to tell me, Ron?"

Dulled, his voice reaches his friend:

"She has never, ever, told me she loves me."

Silence weights on the room.

"I was at your wedding, buddy" Harry says. "I heard her vows…"

And the memory -Ginny's hand on his shoulder, the stupid smiles of everyone as something nameless burned inside of him- almost makes him throw up. Ron's laughter, today, has no joy.

On top of it, back in the Auror Department, he cannot look her in the eyes, and Hermione also shuns his gaze.

* * *

Preview

Harry remembers what Ron has revealed to him, about this woman's long-lasted devotion, so beyond that of others, precious mystery knitted around her. And the rest. He sticks his nose in her hair, remembering everything they have gone through together, all the times she has been the only thing between him and death (literally and figuratively), the times he has gone back to life because she was calling him, wondering if it has only been the bracelet's power, or if this one have even been a large part of it. "My guardian angel" he thinks, holding her tighter, his head leaning on his companion's neck (so fresh and warm, so small and so powerful at the same time).

* * *

I have been struggling with the scene for a while. H&H might be playing platonic and deluding themselves, following the law to the letter, but I'd really hate to be in the husband's shoes. Have I sweetened it too much? Please do tell.


	5. Othello's disease

Othello's disease

_Harry summoned his broom. Duham was the first one to hold hers, after him. Her sister just bent down and grabbed one, the muggle way. The brooms still knew, as well as herself, that she did not like to take her feet off the ground. _

_"Well, who has played Quidditch?" _

_Several hands were shot to the ceiling. Duham's, included. _

_"Let me guess: seeker?" his mentor asked discreetly. The girl smiled. Hermione saw little stars in her eyes, and suddenly Azkaban, Parkinson and everything related was forgotten; there are follies worse than others. _

_"We're looking for maximum speed here" he addressed the class. "I want you to fly as fast as you safely can, and then faster, as you feel more confident. Those hunting you will not pamper you." _

_He rode his broom and kicked the floor. Duham left a silver wake as she followed him. Hermione flew right behind them, and accelerating. Harry's greeting held a glint of surprise: she never flew beside him. He only took his eyes off her when Duham, with an impressive flip, took the lead. _

_"Watch out!" they shouted at once. _

_Harry glanced at Hermione, who nodded, and chased after the newbie, but soon realized that this one knew what she was doing, despite her muggle upbringing. As he had. With a laugh of pure joy, he began to manoeuvre around her, circling, and she sensed his purpose and began to rise and fall in the air in perfect synchrony. The other recruits were engrossed, as if watching gymnastics, until Hermione shouted for them to keep going. They were not about to reach those two, not even at full speed. It was she who stayed behind. She was slightly breathless. Actually, she didn't want to watch the show, herself. _

_The owl came out of nowhere, almost colliding with the witch, who barely managed to stay on the broom while performing a pirouette to evade it, and even then, the animal began to follow. Cursing under her breath as she watched the group go farther, Hermione let herself be reached. Effectively: mail for her. Confirming attendance to the party. _

_For Merlin's beards, the party!_

* * *

The official order comes in one of those moments of absolute dullness when Harry, in his cubicle, charms small objects to evade his grip (and then catches them), while Hermione, as usual, barely pulls her nose off the book.

"Memory-affecting potions and spells," Harry reads, bending to eye the cover. "I never thought there were enough of those to fill a book..."

Hermione ignores him, as usual, and just turns the page. A paper ball comes alive at Harry's charms, flying over his ear; he catches the improvised snitch without much of a challenge and sighs, bored. Absentmindedly, he leans over Hermione's shoulder and reads bits of the page. Cerebral cortex, synapses, axons, are all over the pages. To the left, in large, ornate letters, the subtitle: "Obliviate." Harry skips what he already knows from Hogwarts: its effects on the brain areas where objective data are stored, its advantages, the details of its pronunciation and wand movement. Hermione's wand is highlighting a question: "Where do emotions reside?"

"Limbic system?" he reads aloud interrupting her again.

Hermione snorts and looks up.

"Do you want to borrow it?"

Harry shrugs and keeps reading. His partner glares at him, but eventually turns to the book, a thin finger passing quickly beneath the lines. 'This spell has no known effect on the soul. Its effects on emotions - which at the time of its design were thought to reside in the heart - are unreliable, limited in the spatial and temporal spheres, sometimes leading to behaviours that remain incomprehensible for the ones spelled, though the reported cases of spontaneous return of memories are at most...'

"You're out of the case," Luna sings.

They both turn around, surprised, not having seen her arrive; the explanation is obvious: the woman is levitating above the division, as if everyone did it all the time. Ignoring their surprise, the boss continues.

"For now Max and Sparkie will take over."

"But they were in charge of the press conference this afternoon," Hermione recalls.

Harry looks at her in awe. Bloody brain. Did she keep track of every auror's agenda?

"The rest of the time, you'll be training the newbies, until another appropriate case arrives."

And she floats out of sight, probably to uncover conspiracy theories that, against all odds, are not such, while Harry asks Hermione:

"What's wrong with the conference this afternoon?"

"They were Ron's escort," she says simply, her lips tightened in a line.

Despite the gesture, her words make Harry feel as if he was flying. 'See? She doesn't want to be with you' something in him screams to Ron's memory. Then he makes the voice shut up, and tries not to be that happy, and fails miserably. Nobody holds a key to their feelings. Finally he realizes what they're talking about: press conference, ergo journalists, ergo people like Skeeter, in front of whom the Golden Trio will be present as it hasn't really been for years. Back then, every time they did, some stupid journalist came out with tricky questions about the relationship between them. And that was when Ginny was alive, and a certain professional courtesy restricted them, sometimes. Today is not going to be fun.

* * *

"And that's all we know about the case, until now," Ron concludes.

Harry and Hermione, behind him, continue to scrutinize comings and goings, the nervous movement of the journalists, their hands up. Harry is bored. He would like to be on a broom. He would like to be training his apprentice, though at the same time the prospect makes him uncomfortable. When he begins to wish to be in the silence of a library, he smiles; sometimes Hermione's emotions still slip surreptitiously towards him. He has just isolated himself again, when his bracelet freezes, and suddenly starts to boil. Complaining behind teeth, he listens to the rest of the question Ron is being asked. The auror doesn't even see anything particular about it. Apparently, Ron either. But Hermione is furious and the journalists, very quiet; some carry cynical smiles, but that goes with the work, right?

"How does this relate to the case?" Ron asks.

The reporter who asked has the longest nails he has seen since Skeeter, and a bright dress, and heart-shaped glasses. Her smile widens, and Harry looks at her pen suspiciously. The escort sets his microphone on the private line and asks his partner about the intervention. Another flash makes him blink. Stepping forward, Hermione puts a hand on Ron's shoulder and speaks to his ear. The minister's shoulders freeze a bit.

"Our private life is not the purpose of this press conference," Ron begins, "nor is the reason why my best friend - he emphasizes - is staying with us at this time. But since public curiosity is so hard to please, I'll point out, again, that any inappropriate relationship between the aurors behind me would have more than disciplinary consequences. As the public often forgets (since it really does not matter, we fought a war for it after all), I am a pureblood male. There are ceremonies that, although available to everyone, are more traditional in cases like mine. My wife and I had the most traditional of marriages. It means that we took the Vow.

Furious tear of feathers against parchment throughout the room. The youngest journalists take out their magically-equipped mobile devices, opening the Wizarding Wide Web. Some of them prefer to question their neighbours.

"Hoping that this issue does not arise again at least in the next year, I clarify that in this variety of marriage between sorcerers, any activity that may lead to the conception of a heir who is not sired by the spouse in question, involves sickness and death in the following seventy-two hours of the act, whether or not there is conception. As my wife shows an enviable state of health, I suppose it's not necessary to clarify that the relationship between her and the Savior of the Wizarding World involves pure friendship, deep and hardened by more than twenty years of fighting together. The list of cases they have solved, and I mean after vanishing Voldemort" he spits with difficulty, still finding hard to use the name, yet knowing that as Minister he has no choice but to show courage, "would have made either of them Chief of Aurors or Minister, had they held any interest at all, and in general would fill a parchment longer than this room. I'd think they deserve your respect."

Harry's mind keeps replaying what Ron himself, with very different voice, told him back in the office, or how he pulled Hermione away from her partner at the station, a few days ago. The auror assumes he must feel, once again, that warmth he experienced when his friends stood by him, the one that allowed him to survive Hogwarts; but in fact he's rather confused.

"It's not your fault," Hermione whispers, her voice distorted by the hearing device. "You know that they have been looking for scandal in the Trio for years. They'd take advantage of anything."

"She wouldn't by chance be another animagus, would she?" Harry asks quietly, staring at the reporter.

Hermione chuckles discreetly, warming him inside.

"We aren't finding out today, and it really doesn't matter. They are like cockroaches. There will always be another one."

* * *

Harry decides that after all Hermione's house wasn't so small as to not accommodate his friends. They shouldn't have used the ballroom of their own home, so large that the scarcity of guests is evident, and so gray. "Few but good" his consciousness whispers in Hermione's voice, as he looks at Neville, who came from Hogwarts. The professor has already given him news of his children (who incidentally haven't written this year). Anyway, it hurts to realize that, after a lifetime, the only friends he made were those made in school (especially members of the DA), along with a few Aurors, and both groups have been decimated in the war against dark magic, before or after the Final Battle. It hurts him, too, to be alone in a corner of his own ballroom, while his friends are with their spouses, with whom they are more or less happy, but always accompanied.

He wonders if his partner is still in that meeting where she has been called at the last minute to help translate among the various languages she speaks.

The place isn't beautiful or decorated. The only one interested in this event was Hermione, who disposed, for the arrangements, exactly of one hour. So aside from fighting with Kreacher until he agreed to take care of the food, and enchanting the glasses of a variety of drinks to float over the room (effectively filling it with multicolored candlelight), she couldn't do much more. The music can be heard without silencing the guests' voices. Harry hopes it's not all as dreadful as feared.

He doesn't notice the girl's approach until she stands by him; only her insistent look makes him turn towards her. Duham.

"Hello," he whispers, trying to smile.

She hesitates for a moment.

"I'm not sure of how to call you, now that we aren't at the Ministry. Auror Potter?"

"'Harry' will do.

The girl wears a beige dress, not revealing but certainly favoring her beauty and youth. She's halfway between the Hermione who attended the Yule Ball with Krum, and the one who stood beside him receiving the Order of Merlin. Innocent yet mature. Thinking of his partner put him at ease at once. The dress looks nice on her.

"I hope you're enjoying the training", he says.

"Well, I guess you can't go easy on us if we must be prepared for being tortured by the kind of villain you faced when you were younger than me."

"Very thoughtful of you" he comments, smiling.

He decides he likes the girl.

"Hermione invited you?" he wonders.

"Well, she did mention a party, but it was Ronald who really called me. I don't think he had fully realized that this was for you and your old class."

Harry chuckled.

"Yes, you must think we are all antiques."

The wizard looks around, finding a bunch of responsible adults that will surely be gone by ten thirty, having important family duties to attend to. Where and when did those years of youth and freedom go?

"You did well today", he adds.

The girl smiles at him (Hermione's smile) and his own joy pales. He must be reaching his middle-age crisis. That smile has devastating effects on him.

Hermione apparates from work (late, arriving very late to her own party) and without even changing clothes or putting on makeup, goes right into the ballroom. The first thing she notices is Harry, talking to Duham. Who suddenly isn't her sister anymore, but a gorgeous girl flirting with her partner. "Why did I even look over there anyway?" she thinks, biting her lip; the place is rather hidden. She does not like. The hiding, or the smiling. Resolutely she walks in the opposite direction, greeting friends and colleagues.

"And how are the kids?" Seamus asks. "Sometimes I envy them: Hogwarts, you know..."

"Firenze has seen them from afar," Luna smiles, dreamily. "He has studied their stars and..."

The auror smiles politely, but without focusing. She's trying so hard not to look to that damn corner, that she has made the entire group turn around to face her. "

"And Ron? I haven't seen him... You both are still married, right?"

If she had a galleon for every time she has heard that, she would be as rich as the Malfoys.

"Well, if being here means you're with Harry now," Dean steps in.

"Oh no! Ron and I" she emphasizes the names "planned the party so he wouldn't feel lonely, now that Lily left too... He's staying at our house."

Seamus, who has elbowed Dean, laughs nervously.

"Yes, that would be real weird, right?"

Hermione sips from the blue liquid and eyes Harry, still on the corner, still with that gorgeous-looking twenty-years-old witch.

The others have apparently noticed her lack of attention, because the next thing she hears is the word 'quidditch'.

"Not in front of Harry," she interrupts in a whisper.

They all turn to her, a paralyzed smile on Dean's face.

"Ginny, you know."

Seamus looks embarrassed as Dean swallows hard. They both sure know about the accident. The Harpies were fashionable, back then.

"It's okay, guys. Do not get upset. It's just... I'd rather save him the pain…

And her eyes return to her partner, who doesn't look pained at all. She should feel good about that. 'You'll go there eventually' her consciousness says and, with a sigh, she admits it's right. Her apology sounds weak as she turns, her mind already going through the room, her body following, gaze fixed on the girl, who laughs once more by when she reaches them and greets them.

"Hi"

Harry turns suddenly and his gaze goes from one to the other. People tend to find their similarities alarming, mainly because they can't be considered twins, given the age. But he seems disturbed. Hermione notices. Her own smile fades, and she wonders, pain in her chest, if she should just ask if she's interrupting something. She finds she can't stand the thought -of asking, of being right, of showing how much it matters to her-. Instead, she goes all professional.

"Harry, we really need to discuss something" and turning to her sister, she asks. "Do you mind?"

The girl shakes her head, suddenly serious, eyeing her big sister with bewilderment, and after a second she walks away.

"Sorry about that, Harry," she whispers honestly, "but I just heard about the situation in France..."

"France?" he asks, just as professional. "It's quite far from our precinct..."

"Yes, but... You know that the Minister of Magic there died suddenly, leaving us all wondering about the timing. But from what I learned today, it turns out that it was not only unexpected, but also the only suspicious death that has reached the news. There have been several, Harry. Unexplainable. No questions asked.

Their eyes meet, and she knows that he understood. It's not hard to link this situation with their fifth year in Hogwarts. She wonders how something this serious has evaded her, who always kept up with the international affairs. But of course, keeping Harry safe and emotionally stable while preparing for the boys for Hogwarts –not to mention, Ron-, has really filled her schedule recently.

Harry's hand went to his scar.

"What's happening?" she asks.

Suddenly she has remembered that this is not the first time she has seen him do that these days. Faced with his lack of response, she precises:

"Have you felt anything at all in your scar?"

To her dismay, he doesn't answer right away, and when he does, it's not with a direct answer:

"Why would you ask?" he asks instead.

"You have."

Hermione's legs falter, and he grabs her, his hands on her elbows. There's silence, as green eyes scrutinize her, worried.

"Well?" she insists defiantly.

He hesitates again before answering.

"It's more of an itch, really…"

"And you didn't thought of mentioning it to your partner…"

"I didn't comment it with myself, Hermione. I thought it was my skin, aging."

"Your skin" she puff. "You have a scar drawn by dark magic, and it stings, but you think you must see a muggle dermatologist. "Are you an Auror?"

He clenches his teeth.

"What now? Do you want me to believe that my so-called arch nemesis is back, after twenty years?"

"Last time it took him eleven years, Harry…"

"I refuse to believe it on an itch of my scar…"

"And now you seriously remind me of Cornelius Fudge…"

The people around them are starting to notice the quarrel, thought they hold it in low voice. Aware of their gazes, Harry represses the urge to look around and, biting the inside of his cheek, he takes her hand to guide her. He tries to look relaxed, and when he looks at her, he notices she's following his lead in that sense as well, smiling to their friends, albeit coldly. Good. The small walk serves to cool their tempers, but he still waits until they have gone through several doors to turn around. They were now in a closet, so one way in and no way of sharing the room with other people.

"What's really disturbing you?" he askes. "You are the logical one. You know that it's too much to assume, that you are presenting me with too little proof."

She's asking herself the same question. Looking into his eyes, she breathes and opens her lips, but they simply shake, and no word comes out.

"Is it about work? Azkaban?" he asks. "Is it even about the thing in France?"

Is it? The witch doesn't know. Maybe she has been on edge ever since she walked into that ballroom.

He looks into her eyes and hesitates.

"Maybe it brought back memories far too harsh to leave you cool?"

She nods, relieved that he would accept that version, though not sure if it's true. Then, she lets him wrap his arms around her.

"We'll get out of this, partner. Really. Regarding France, they can take care, I'm sure.

Hermione closes her eyes and lets herself be enveloped by the smell of fresh grass under which she can still perceive that of Harry himself, unrepeatable. The bracelet hums, slightly warmer than before.

Harry is remembering what Ron has revealed to him, about this woman's devotion of years, which in itself goes beyond that of others. A mystery. He sticks his nose in her hair, remembering everything they have faced together, all the times she has been the only thing between him and death (literally and figuratively), all the times he has returned from it because she was calling him. "My guardian angel" he thinks, and he holds her tighter, tilting his head over Hermione's shoulder (so fresh and warm, so small and so powerful at the same time). Reluctantly he lets go, and watches her frown.

"That tunic does need to be ironed".

Harry snorts.

"Kreacher is so cranky these days... I tried to do it myself."

Hermione is already casting the corresponding spell, her wand barely touching his tunic. A soothing warmth fills the thickness of the fabric after the brief contact.

She herself is obviously wearing the same outfit she worn at work; practical stuff, fit to her figure, slightly dusty and filled with her smell –treacle and pumpkin and leather and spring-, which now impregnates the restricted space. He thinks that, even in those clothes, she looks stunning, his heart beating so fast that he finds there's no enough air.

"You're ready" She smiles before walking out of the closet.

He holds her back by her hand, and she turns, looks at her scar next to his, then into his eyes -questioning, maybe a little hopeful? He lets her go. When she does, he still breathes deeply -a mistake, since the space still smells of her -and follows. As soon as he's back in the ballroom, he finds a glass of pumpkin juice hovering near his head. He grabs it and drinks it without breathing, as if he had just come out of years walking through the desert.

Ron has arrived, casting him a suspicious look before putting Hermione's hand on his own arm and leading her to the dance floor, where in fact there are two couples, despite the shortage of people.

The smell of pumpkin and leather intensifies, along with a somewhat different mixture of flowers. Harry turns to the girl who has once again stood beside him, and stares at the same couple. Hermione is trying to guide a very clumsy Ron who half-heartedly fights her advice, just for the sake of tradition. The redhead laughs and she frowns at him, her lips pressed together. Harry notices that his partner is trying to suppress a laugh. Without fully realizing it, he's grasping the female hand that's so near to his own, and guides the girl to the dance floor as well.

* * *

Longer than usual. Don't I deserve some love? Or hate, whatever. You can review down there. Please let me know what do you think about said Vow (not that original, I know, but once applied). Or about what ever you want. I promise, he won't do a thing to the girl, we all know they wouldn't work anyway :)


	6. Family

_Training apparently wasn't that important for the female newbies in the grey room. Hermione's eyes rolled as she approached them without even having to use her auror skills._

_"Avis" she whispered._

_Anyone would say that at this point, the trainees should be able to notice an attacker with an entire flock flying around, making her look like cinderella's oddest cousin; but of course, their chitchat was always more interesting._

_"'Auror Hotter', they should call him" a girl whispered, being heard by the entire room –not remotely as discreet as she apparently thought she was–. Hermione's blood boiled. She guessed that this girl would be the first to die, from the litter._

_"Oppugno!"_

_"Protego!"_

_The birds crashed against the shield Duham had just invoked, as if against a glass window. The youngest witch hadn't been in the group, but had ran in front of the attacker in no time, managing to protect her distracted colleagues. Hermione and her sister still aimed their wands at each other for another second, and then Hermione stood straight and smiled._

_"Well done, Granger" she praised her, not showing how weird she found to speak her own maiden name in second person. "You moved fast." And frowning to the rest of the girls, who had paled but hadn't moved yet, she added: "I remind you that not every trainee become an auror, and there's a reason for that, as it is for all the EE requested to be admitted: if you aren't prepared, you aren't but cannon fodder. Constant vigilance!"_

* * *

"You should have seen her, back then!" He laughs again, grave sounds echoing throughout the room. "So many years of us, boys, hating each other, and it's her who gets physical. She was splendid. When she pulled out her wand, the guy nearly wetted his pants... Hermione never told you?

Duham, at his side, shakes his head, still laughing without shame. Her drink spills, and she cleans up the mess with an "ups" that sounds like a hiccup.

It's very late. All the guests at the party have been gone for a while, Ron's probably sleeping on some sofa somewhere and Hermione is fighting Kreacher over who cleans the ballroom, perhaps creating an even bigger mess. An hour ago she alternated that fight, with yelling to them for not supporting her. They have taken refuge. That doesn't mean Hermione is less present.

"You must have... real problems ... dating," Duham utters between one hiccup and another.

Harry watches her, calculating how many drinks has she had.

"Why?"

"Don't you have ... a story that doesn't ... include Mia?"

Harry thinks for a moment. Alcohol playing its role, it's without shame that the wizard shakes his head:

"None interesting."

"Come on…! The Chamber of Secrets?"

He nods uncertainly.

"I suppose ... Can you know my life better than I do?"

"That's because she... has the same problem... with you."

"But she wasn't even there."

Duham shrugs.

"So what? Half the stories… she tells come from… books anyway."

They laugh in chorus, of nothing in particular. Harry feels himself floating, as if on a carpet of memories. He remembers, without knowing why, the dates where mentioning Hermione ended up becoming a problem. Especially the first one, with Cho. Hermione had a very big role in that date, mainly since she herself was also the one to point out the problem to him, afterwards. Ginny ended up getting used to it.

"Shouldn't you be at home?"

Duham nods and hiccups again.

"Never mind, I don't think you can apparate. I may be able to apparate myself once, but I don't think I can take both of us without splitting someone. Should I call Kreacher to take you home?"

The fear in the trainee's eyes makes him laugh again:

"You can always stay here, there are spare rooms you know."

This time the girl blushes a little bit. Decidedly, the fear of Keacher drove back the effect of alcohol. Harry shrugs.

"Just for today. Let's not tell Luna."

He stands up and stretches, eyes wandering to his partner. Even with walls in between, he locates her without fail. She's not furious anymore. Her magic sounds as if the alcohol had affected her as well. As if she was humming.

He guides the girl through the house, into the kids' room, which is always pristine. When he turns on the light, the apprentice jumps to the first bed she sees without much thinking, and Harry has to suppress the impulse to tuck her in as he would do with Lily. This girl is much older. And she does not carry his last name.

"Sweet dreams," he whispers as he switches off the light.

She is already asleep.

He thinks that in the morning, Duham will love the bookshelf, and the quidditch posters. No matter which team she supports, there are all kinds hanging in that room. With five children in the trio, it's difficult to keep uniformity.

Hermione's house is much better lit than his, even with lights turned off and at night. Enough windows. The moonlight gives everything a strange look. Harry sits on the kitchen table and rests his head on his arm, gathering strength to climb the stairs.

And he awakens with the bitter taste of a recurrent, impossible dream. Hermione, holding a green-eyed girl in her arms. 'Maybe I've been thinking too much about the kids.' Harry rubs his face with his hands and, putting a hand on the plateau, gets up.

* * *

_The knocks on the door were slightly louder and abrupt than usual, and Ron hurried to open. The desperate cry spread to the interior. Contagious despair. Harry stormed past him, heading to the bedroom before even murmuring:_

_"Are you sure it's not a problem?"_

_"Where one eats, two eat." Ron dismissed. "Let Weasleys say so…"_

_"Thank you for this, mate..."_

_"Does Ginny know...?"_

_"I have finally picked Al up and taken him away, and she hasn't tried to stop me."_

_"That's bad luck, mate... getting sick right now..."_

_The boy bellowed impatiently in his father's arms, who held him tightly and quickened his pace as Ron came forward to open the door. Inside, Hermione turned to them at once, wand in her hand, in an almost instinctive gesture in spite of having been an auror for such a short period; the sudden gesture elicited a protest from the cradle's content, over which she had bent until now, but the witch ignored it. Her face, still swollen as her body, lit up, and for a moment the dark circles around her eyes weren't so deep, and the mess in her hair stopped mattering, when she spread her arms to welcome the child in Harry's arms. Her gaze went from son to father, and to the baby again, and she hugged him tightly as with the other hand she sought the chair behind her, and sat heavily, in a strange position, avoiding delivery wounds. The crib levitated and rocked slowly, shutting Rose inside, despite Al's bellowing; Hermione herself had cast the soundproofing spell on the area. Disregarding Ron's repeated attempts to get him back out, Harry watched mesmerized as she worked on the strategically placed folds in her robe, while Al's mouth, now silent, searched desperately, sensing the closeness of the milk, his hands gripping to the cloth in front of his mouth. The wine-colored nipple was barely visible for a moment, before disappearing between his lips. Humming softly, Hermione began to rock the bald infant, her gaze fixed on his intensely green eyes that watched her as if she was the matter of heaven._

_"He looks a lot like you," she commented a moment later, interrupting the singing._

_The silence, after the crying, was deafening._

_Hermione gently stroked Al's cheeks, put a finger on his nose. Harry, who on the other hand had barely seen her since birth, did not remember her being this affectionate with Rose. Something between gratitude and affection gathered in a warm puddle on his stomach. He didn't answer. A slightly frowning Ron finally managed to get him out of there._

* * *

From the portrait at the top of the stairs, a version of Ron twenty years younger greets him when he arrives. Harry smiles just as the paper Hermione turns to him beaming herself. He looks at his own reflection, which at that moment straightens his glasses with the same hand with which he holds the wand, confused as always by the prospect of greeting his own self.

* * *

_The smile on their lips froze somewhat when Hermione, without warning, ran out of the room. Harry and Ron looked at each other and went after her. Ginny protested behind them, muttering something about not needing a procession to go throw up, but it was Ron who looked back, while the auror reached the bathroom where his partner had just magically vanished the contents of the sink. Not for much longer. New gagging shook her, and Harry brushed her hair back from her face as she bent over, her whole body contracted in spasms and braced on the sides of the sink. The husband finally arrived, his expression confused, but a moment later he rubbed his nape, some pride slipping in his posture._

_"Don't put on that face," Hermione snapped. "We all know you are to blame."_

_When she leaned over the sink again, the boys looked at each other over her head. Ron, now, seemed about to retch himself._

_"Go to Ginny," Harry asked._

_The redheaded boy seemed to hesitate for a moment, but when he heard new gagging, he shuddered and nodded._

_It took a while for the discomfort to pass. Harry made a handkerchief appear, wet it, and from time to time he refreshed her forehead or the back of her neck; it relieved her, he saw her close her eyes every time. Finally, still leaning, as if not to be seen like that, Hermione washed her face and rinsed her mouth. His partner released her hair, but didn't move from there. This might not be over._

_"You OK? He dared ask, hesitating."_

_"I'll survive."_

_She still didn't look at him._

_"I don't want you to see me like this."_

_"Don't be ridiculous. I've seen worse."_

_He still hesitated before adding:_

_"Ron didn't want to be a jerk either, you know? He's just proud to be a dad..."_

_The girl sighed and looked up._

_"I know. I do remember he spent a whole day vomiting slugs because he had tried to stand up for me. I guess, grown up as I am, I can take a couple of weeks."_

* * *

Harry, lying on the bed, hands behind his head, has been watching the ceiling for a while - shadows changing with dawn-. He barely slept. It's still early. Quietly, he turns to the empty half of the bed, wondering why he feels as if someone should be there. Not Ginny. Again he feels that strange impression, warm but confused, as if he had forgotten something, scenes that remain beyond his reach; instead, his mind navigates memories more akin to those of the previous night, as if he had not slept since then.

* * *

_"I've never witnessed one, mate. Mum says it hurts a lot..." Ron uttered enthusiastically._

_"Ron" Harry hushed him, "it's Hermione you're talking about..."_

_While speaking, he looked at her. The girl was paler than the sheet on which she was sitting and the wall behind, and she was staring at nothing in particular, frowning only when her abdomen contracted. As much as it hurt, she managed to handle it. Ron kept going as if he hadn't heard:_

_"... but I've heard all sorts of disgusting things: that their bladder empties, that..."_

_"Ron! I know that you're a bit obtuse, but if you don't realize it by yourself, I'm telling you: you're transgressing._

_"I only say..."_

_"No, it's me who say. You're hurting Hermione, and I don't care that you're the father: if you don't shut up right now, I'll get you kicked out of the room._

_Ron was serious right away and seemed about to get all male, when Hermione screamed. A boy dressed in blue, very young, probably fresh out of college, approached; Harry followed him closely with his eyes. He wondered if he should call another doctor when a senior approached. Despite his age, or perhaps because of it, the senior doctor radiated apathy and Harry's gaze went from one to the other without knowing who he would choose if he could._

_"I can't work with both of you here," the doctor said in a monotone tone of voice._

_Hermione grabbed both of their hands, her knuckles white from the effort, and managed to speak:_

_"That was not the agreement."_

_"Do you want a healthy baby, or not?"_

_Harry wondered if using Confundus would be useful, but quickly decided that it could compromise his knowledge and thereby put Hermione in danger._

_"The father can stay. Who is it?"_

_His gaze went from one to the other. Harry and Ron looked at each other, and Harry almost dropped his glasses when his mate said:_

_"Both."_

_The doctor watched him, bored._

_"A modern marriage, huh?"_

_But he seemed to enjoy the idea enough to forget that he had to get one of them out of there._

_Hermione barely protested when, a sheet covering her thighs halfway up her legs, they lifted them up to the supports of the gynecological table. When the doctor seemed to disappear behind the sheet, the movement of his elbows made Harry sick; he seemed to have his fingers inside of Hermione, and probably that was the case. The witch was terribly pale but not talking. She kept grabbing Harry with her right, and Ron with her left. The screech at the beginning hadn't been repeated. Apparently, that contraction had taken her by surprise._

_"You're 8cm dilated, but I'm going to help you," the doctor said. "When you feel the contraction, push with all you have."_

_The woman didn't seem to hear him, but she complied, her face distorted. A strange sound escaped from her clenched teeth. The doctor seemed disappointed._

_"Do not cry out. You don't use all of your strength if you scream."_

_Hermione pressed her lips in a line and tried again, and the sound was lessened this time, but Harry saw the doctor make a strange movement, as if opening something with his hands, and a true cry of anguish escaped her._

_"You're hurting her!" Ron accused._

_It was an echo of what Harry had wanted to yell a moment before, but he had repressed it and even whispered a muffliato under his breath, so neither the doctor nor the nurse reacted to Ron's outburst._

_"Sit down," he advised. "You'll only get us out, and Hermione will be left alone."_

_"She's misbehaving," the doctor whispered to the nurse._

_Harry would have risen from Hermione's bedside had she not stopped him, but Ron, who had not sat down, protested again:_

_"She's trying!"_

_The spell was still working, fortunately._

_Harry saw the doctor take scissors and point it towards Hermione. This one didn't seem to feel it. Ron looked like he was going to faint, but he was holding Hermione's hand, his elbows on the bed. Harry did the same, on the other side._

_Something shrill sounding like 'buajaja' made him look up. The doctor and the nurse were working farther away from the sheet. Harry took a deep breath, and felt weakness engulf him. Luckily he wasn't standing. The doctor gave Hermione a ball of wrinkled flesh with tiny arms opened cross-like that trembled with the violence of crying. It didn't look like anyone but Ron. Harry felt lost. For a second, he had expected to see an image of himself._

_Ron took the baby from Hermione's arms and played with her little fingers, marveling over the fact that Nature had apparently wished to clone his average being in female form._

_"The brother can come in now," the doctor invited._

_Suddenly he had become sympathetic._

_"Brother?" Ron asked absently._

_"Is it a sister?"_

_"We don't have any more children."_

_The doctor eyed Hermione, who looked at him blankly, and shrugged._

_The new mother looked at Harry, and just then he noticed her blue lips trembling, her absent eyes. Harry had seen Ginny shake after delivery, apparently everyone did, but he had never seen anything like this. That she was traumatized, he held no doubt. There was nothing more awful than the expression of his partner right now._

_That's why when, two years later, he arrived at the couple's home, after a frantic phone call from Ron who hadn't managed to say anything useful, he wasn't surprised to find Hermione in a corner of the bathroom, curled in a ball around the mass that was her abdomen, shaking violently and with the same blue lips as before._

_"We have to take her to San Mungo's," Ron said quickly._

_He was kneeling beside Hermione, his back to him._

_"She wants a home delivery," Harry opposed. "We have to respect her will."_

_"And when she asked for it, you protested as much as I did! Ron turned, blue eyes shooting all the rage he couldn't express in fear._

_"You locked yourself in here?" Harry adressed Hermione. "Why?"_

_She hid her head between her knees. With her bulging belly, she looked pathetic like that._

_"You're a Gryffindor!" Ron exclaimed. "You cannot be afraid of obstetricians!"_

_"Shut up," Harry ordered, leaning down to take her in his arms._

_Ron seemed to want to protest, but one look at his wife, and he fell silent._

_"She faced Bellatrix cruciatus without that…!"_

_"Neither of us know how this is," Harry interrupted. "Leave her alone."_

_He released a terrified moan._

_"What if she dies?"_

_"Shut up, Ron!"_

_The next contraction was so violent that they couldn't reach the bed. Harry managed to cushion the fall so she wouldn't be hurt._

_He looked at her and realized again how odd it was to have her like that. Of course he had seen her scared, during and after Hogwarts; training for aurors had moments designed for nothing else to seem worse, so that nothing would scare you anymore. And yet, this, he had never seen her anywhere near this._

_"Isn't there a potion? Something?" Ron asked in despair._

_"It could affect the baby."_

_He had the spell on the tip of his lips._

_Hermione shouted again. As much as she controlled herself, it still took her by surprise._

_At that moment Ginny's voice was heard at the door. Harry looked at Ron's body, fainted beside his wife's since he had seen the amount of blood that flowed, to her trembling body, and shouted an invitation to his own wife. A moment later the redheaded witch had located them. She stopped at the door, gaze a bit cold on the hand that her husband was still holding, and stepped forward, with the gait of his own advanced gestation. She exchanged a glance with Hermione._

_"Can I help?"_

_She nodded._

_Ginny knelt between her legs and lifted the bloody dress._

_"I think I see the head."_

_Looking around, the improvised midwife frowned. She muttered a spell that woke up her brother._

_"Go bring hot water and towels."_

_The redheaded wizard eyed his wife and turned pale but had the presence of mind to attract magically clean towels and go heat water._

_"And come back soon!" she added after him._

_When little Hugo was born, Ron was again grabbing his wife's other hand. Ginny looked at them -the golden trio, once again together against the world- and decided not to separate them, so she summoned the scissors herself and cut the cord before handing the half-blue kid t his mother. Then she grabbed her husband's other hand and waited for him to stand up and help her do so. Harry looked from one to the other and didn't seem to come to a decision, so in her next contraction, Ginny didn't control the groan that struggled to get out. That sure attracted his attention._

_"Come on, Harry," she confirmed. "I'm in labor too."_

* * *

Harry recognizes his partner's footsteps before she knocks on the door, recognizes the pattern of her magic approaching his as a metal must recognize the magnet, knows she comes to check that he's home, that he's well. In spite of everything, when she comes in, he doesn't know what to say. He keeps watching her intensely, and her smile and words freeze on her lips. He sees her look around. Her gazing around tells him that she, like him, doesn't know how to explain what she feels. That she misses something. Suddenly, on impulse, without even greeting her, he asks:

"Why did you call her Rose?"

Despite the venturesome question, Hermione doesn't ask him to repeat, and barely takes a moment to answer:

"Because I couldn't name her Lily."

Newly bathed, wet hair falling on her shoulders, an absent hand on the door's knob, and that pyjama he knows is wide and unattractive yet cannot see as such, Hermione is the very concept of what he would have wanted for himself. His eyes hesitate on the woman's shape, until she decides to close the door behind her.

* * *

Author's note: This chapter was supposed to include more memories, notably those of Harry and Hermione becoming partners, but it's too long already. That's better, it allows me to ask you how do you see that day. I won't settle for sublime because I'm afraid it might look ridículous, what I ask is what moves you viscerally. Review down there to tell me, or PM me. I'm literally hanging from my phone, waiting for your words.


	7. Gray lines

"You have chosen to be Aurors" said the Minister of Magic.

It was the official 'Welcome to the Auror department' ceremony, and the newbies were almost the only ones present –most seniors having more important things to do–. So this seemed mostly like being at school. Ron hated lessons. Imparting them, as much as receiving them. But he stuck to the speech Hermione had helped him write.

"You are the very first generation of recruits to have never –ever- been in war. And that's good, because as terrifying as it is to fight Voldemort or Grindewald, it is always the kind of rush youngest Aurors expect. Peace is beautiful and, for most, boring, filled with day-to-day patrols and paperwork. Don't get disappointed. Don't lose your discipline. Don't forget your training."

He looked at each one of their faces, as Hermione had instructed him to. They wore solemn –and slightly scared– expressions. They were so, so young. All he wanted to say to them was 'bloody hell, are you all out or your minds?' but he didn't need Hermione to roll her eyes to know that he couldn't be that informal.

"And we hope you all know what you are up to… because here, you will stop seeing all black and white. You will bring into custody people that are really not that different from yourselves. People that used Unforgivables on children, to protect their own. People who defend great values at the price of blood, theirs and others'. And you will be tempted to let them walk, or even follow. If you can't resist it, quit. Now."

9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾9¾

When she apparates, the second thing Hermione registers is an intense smell of humidity and something organic going to waste. The cold air gives her goosebumps, more than the semidarkness. According to protocol, she keeps the wand raised and turns around, scanning the surroundings: closed doors, dusty and sombre windows that exhibit suspiciously human looking bones, a dirty coloured cat landing from his jump in a defence position. However, she knows she's safe; the first thing perceived was Harry's presence, and the fact that he isn't scared.

However, when she spots him, she gasps and steps back, more shaken that she had been if she had spotted a horde of vampires in waiting. Her eyes hesitate between the two figures. She mustn't be that surprised: she has lost count of the times she has found them like this: alone, side by side, the smile on their faces an obvious remnant of their previous conversation. Again, she feels like the fifth wheel. Outcast. Wounded. Cornered. She fears that beast inside her ribcage; she'd like to believe herself above bearing a grudge against her own sister.

-Hermione -her partner greets.

Her gaze stays on him. The last ray of sunlight, reflected in the window behind him, draws around the boy-who-lived a halo very much in tune with the legend. Dazzled, she frowns. The sorcerer has raised the wand, mirroring her. He smiles. Upon perceiving it, his friend finds it easier to breathe. It might even be worth anything.

-Harry -she responds.

She takes a look at Duham, who, in turn -wand raised but not alert- observes not the target, but her mentor, with starry eyes. 'This is my place', Hermione recalls, almost angered, forcing back the disconcerting mixture of feelings. Jealousy. Fear. 'It's my place'. Harry is her place ... at work, at least: it's a partner thing. A right. Patrols are her duty. It's Duham who is out of place. It costs her. Not to retreat, costs her. Not to feel bad about it. She spent too much time giving Ginny space. Too many years. But Ginny wasn't such a threat: she had her place, respected hers. Deep down, Hermione always knew that her own intimacy with Harry was, in spite of everything, greater. Intact, untouchable. What they shared. What they had shared forever. Duham is a threat.

Greater, now.

"First year", he begins, "when we faced Snape's seven bottles, you mentioned several things that were more important than books and intelligence..."

Hermione just stares at him: identity verification isn't standard during patrol. The wizard eyes the girl. 'Let's teach her well', he seems to say.

"Friendship and bravery," she recalls, firm voice, immobile wand.

She is very much aware that her friend isn't that comfortable with her lately, but in Duham's presence. At first, it was strange and hurtful, and she tried to speak to him, she even dared probe his state of mind through the connection they share -feeling like an intruder. Everything she could perceive, behind carefully closed doors in her partner's mind, was confusion -in him, as well; maybe bigger than it was in herself-, and a storm of raging feelings when they were all alone, that quietened in company. It made her curious at first. It doesn't matter anymore. To say she misses the familiarity, the intimacy, in which she relies, would be to call the sea a drop. Everything in her trembles and shivers looking for his warmth, as a junkie suddenly deprived of heroin.

"Ask", he suggests at last.

The beast in her chest is the one who speaks.

"To what music did we dance in the forest of Dean?

The wizard flinches, and his partner is no less surprised. Fear and a tremor that is not only of fear, goes from one to the other, before the innocent look of the girl who is soon given no attention. Which is what Hermione wanted - a part of her, anyway.

The forest. Neither of them remembers it so well, more like a recurring dream, and of all the memories they share, it's the only one they never recall, like in a tacit agreement, like an instinct. There is something uncomfortable about it. 'Too close'.

-I never knew the name.

-Hum -the immediate answer comes.

Harry pauses, breathes, eyes the girl whose presence, now, he also regrets. A second of silence. The voice trembles a bit when it's raised, alone, in surroundings that are desolate yet safer than they were at the time. It's a bit hesitant, a bit out of tune, a bit too full of things that cannot be said. Hermione's wand comes down a little. She would like to close her eyes and let herself go, but she doesn't want to miss Harry's expression, again intimate, again bright on her.

Her personal drug.

None of them perceives the knowing look of the youngest, the brief smile exchanged with empty walls.

Harry's voice sounds grave and naked. Hermione follows the notes, a humming so low that only makes her throat vibrate, remaining unheard, until they stop, simultaneously, where they stopped dancing the previous time. They are alone, but they aren't, and the two of them are acutely conscious of the presence of the girl at their side.

Hermione forces herself to address this one.

"Name of your white stuffed animal," she asks, not paying attention.

"Hedwig," Duham replies quickly before asking: "When did you first tell me who were my parents?"

"I haven't" Hermione answers.

They both lower the weapons. Duham does it first, a half smile on her lips. Hermione really isn't in the mood for smiling.

And again the tension is back in Harry's eyes, and Hermione wants to crash her head against the closest wall to the best Dobby style. What if now he isn't comfortable with her, even in Duham's presence? Irrational and unfounded fear, and therefore as powerful as fear of the dark.

The wizard, at last, steps back, shaking himself mentally, deafened by an inaudible alarm. The smell of syrup and pumpkin surrounds him, stronger than ever. He doesn't breathe until he has stepped by them and taken the lead.

Without a word, Hermione goes past him and takes the lead from him, the wand raised.

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"Ronald, you must know something…!"

His voice is that of a cornered animal. Ron calculates quickly how many days until full moon.

"It's not within my jurisdiction, Bill. Sorry"

"¡But it's Gabrielle...!

"The government there..."

"You can't ignore the situation there, how disastrous…! Look" he choses persuasion, "Fleur stood by us during war, she sheltered you, feed you, she bet her life even though this wasn't her country. ¡We can't abandon France like this".

"And we thank her, with all of our hearts, but we have to keep Britain safe" Ron replicates mechanically. "Sorry, Bill. You have no idea of the consequences of war, of how it affects us still."

He feels the prick of the Oath, and hopes the abrupt end of his response isn't that evident.

"Look, I'll look for Gabrielle, and I promise I'll return her to you, if it can be done. Leave already so I can get started.

He sees the conflict in his brother's expression, but finally this one gives up. Ron isn't fooled. The discussion will go on once the first demand is fulfilled.

"You promised, Ron."

It sounds strange as his brother retreats from the chimney. Ron moves inmediately to the phone, picks it up, lets it ring once.

"Gabrielle Delacour"

"What's with her" the voice speaks, menacing.

"She's family. Give her back"

"She's French" the voice answers, demanding an explanation.

"She's family" he repeats.

The silence weights. 'Family'. 'Sacred'.

"If it's among us, she'll be spared"

The tone seems to resound in the whole room, and it costs Ron a moment to distinguish that it's not the phone, but the chimney's alarm. He activates the communication and a head at first unrecognizable appears, facing the other way.

"How does it work, dear?"

It spins out of control for a moment, making strange noises, until it remains half to the side.

"Ronald?

"Mrs Granger" he calls, patient.

"Is Duham around?"

"The Ministery of Magic is quite big, Mrs Granger" he answers.

Being Minister has taught him some diplomacy, after all.

"Oh". She sounds dissappointed. "It has been almost a month since she last contacted us, Ron. I'm sorry for the interruption" and though she doesn't use a particularly despective tone, Ron finds it increasingly evident how inferior the Wizarding World seems to the muggle, in all its politics; who calls the Minister to its office to ask him to mediate in family affairs? "but could you please tell us how is she?

"Her training auror says she's a strong girl."

Despite the strange angle in which the muggle remains, surely to avoid another episode of spinning, Ron thinks she's frowning, so many times he had seen that expression in his own wife..

"Yeah, sure. Please remind them of the monthly lunch. Thank you."

The lady extracts her head from the chimney in a single forcefull move, and for a second she feels like trowing up. When she finally raises her head, her husband is at the door.

"This time I went with Ronald" Mr Granger approaches and extends the hand that doesn't hold the glass of water, helps her up, ignores the crack coming from her knees -no longer that young-, as his wife adds. "She seems to be doing OK."

"You worry too much. Children must leave the nest."

"But that much silence? And did you see how she was when she left?"

"I didn't like it more than you did. And all of that magic…" he twists his face and his fingers comb gray, almost nonexistent hair. "Hermione didn't have to fight for that world, and Duham, neither. I think Hermione, as a child, wanted to be a dentist.

His wife eyes him, looking in her magically clouded memories for some clue of that one in particular. She sighs. With her youngest, it's far easier.

"The other day I found Duham's owl. It ended up losing all the plush and turning gray, but she wouldn't sleep without it. Do you remember? She was such a sweet, sweet girl.

"And her imaginary friend. What was the name?" the father recalls, walking to the door.

The woman shrugs. By the moment Duham was old enough to pronounce a name clearly, she wouldn't speak about it. Mrs Granger thought that imaginary friends, though normal in infancy, didn't last that long.

Those had been dark times, and Mrs Granger doesn't like to remember them. There wasn't a clue of Duham's family history, her parents might have psychiatric problems, Hermione herself wouldn't remember who they were -and with the Grangers' background, it wasn't hard to imagine that info had been magically erased too, Mrs Granger preferred to imagine it as the magical version of the "accouchement sur X", in this case in particular she held a serious grudge against whoever wanted to keep her identity secret to that expense, seeing how they had to consider to medicate the girl as a mentally ill patient.

The lady sighs, skipping memories and fragments of a puzzle that might never be put together properly. Fortunately, that's already in the past.

"At the end, I'll have to consider myself lucky if I see her once monthly" the woman protests.

She leaves to attend dinner, and from then on she only thinks of leftovers and of the book she's currently reading -something about possession, she hopes that's not as real as wizards turned out to be.

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Hermione feels her partner right behind her, watching the flanks, ready to act at any sign of danger. Under her shoes, something wet and doughy like guts. The slimness of a wild-eyed werewolf disappears in an alley. She wonders how they are supposed to fight back to back, as they use to, with a third party to accommodate.

Her partner hasn't thought about that.

The smell is subtle, but there's no truce, and it drags him to thoughts that he drowns before letting them come to the surface. In front of him, Hermione's rigid back. When he turns he faces the little sister, who offers him a gazelle smile. They both move as seasoned fighters, but the youngest one lets her sex and age show in her steps. He isn't a fool, nor is he unexperienced. Knowingly or not, Duham flirts, and she has been doing so for a while: in class, when he adjusts the angle of her wand, or while training physically; after classes, when she sits by his side in meetings, always a bit too close. She's lovely and beautiful. Why the hell is it not working?

Darkness surrounds them before they even notice. The simultaneous spelling of two female voices: "Lumos"; at once, two pathetic beams of light. His own fingers clench around the wand, whose light join the others. Between beams, darkness is even deeper. Yellow eyes follow them wherever they go, once in a while magic light reflects on them. Hermione has extended a shield around all three. A rat slips between the girl's feet, who protests between clenched teeth, upset by her own cowardice, even as she cringes from the animal. Harry is tense like a rope. He doesn't wonder how much of it has to do with being at night in the alley, and how much with his own partner.

Perhaps for that reason, the crunch makes them startle and assemble instantly; Duham reacting slightly late, she puts her back against the elders' shoulders. Harry and Hermione, both, hesitate. He is the one who moves to make space for her, forming a triangle, even as he mentally punishes himself for having brought her. This should be easy. Patrolling is routine. But it's him who assumed the responsibility of bringing the apprentice, and will have to rely on her skills. And first of her class or not, he does not feel comfortable with that. He thinks of Hermione, whose fear distillates within him; Duham is her family, and it's clear that she is the most vulnerable one, a curse from the proper angle and she'll be dead even before finishing her training. He curses himself, promises to protect them both, and finds himself almost as powerless for it as when he was eleven and saw Voldemort be revealed under the turban.

A mew, and a ray of light falls on a black cat, while the others finish scanning the area. Hermione has cast a couple of spells between her teeth. Finally, she sighs, relieved.

"Let's go," he suggests, taking the vanguard this time.

Hermione looks at the cloak on her partner's back, sees Duham take a step towards him, and without thinking she reaches for him, catches up first.

"Harry…"

He walks faster, leaving her behind.

The woman falls silent and follows him, as fast as she can. Distance between them remains dangerous. Her heart leaps when a door opens giving way to two hooded figures, who turn towards the aurors in silence. Hermione reaches Harry, almost breathless, the wand clenched. She thinks she recognizes one of the figures -a man, almost her age. As for the other, the cloak obscures his features. "Isn't that step familiar?" the auror asks, watching the hooded figure, slightly taller than him.

They are about to ask for identification, when the suspects disappear.

Hermione sighs and turns to Duham, who looks frankly annoyed. Neither of the elders has realized that, in spite of their silent competence for who is in front, in the line of fire, both have moved simultaneously to protect the apprentice, effectively keeping her out of the action. To keep her alive and well, that's all Hermione cares about. Indulging her self-esteem, she now allows her to move forward, not before scanning the surroundings, as Harry does, by her side, verifying that they are, at least, as out of danger as can be expected. Her eyes rest on the doorframe a second before Duham's voice call:

"Mia, does it look familiar?"

Hermione approaches it and bends down, checking the suspects' prints, before standing by her side. Harry sees them aim the slight beams to the upper part of the doorframe. His wand, instead, points to the surrounding darkness. Single words reach him: Wales ... runes ... Merlin? Hermione follows the doorframe, to the right and down, ducking as Duham leans to her side. They talk so fast and in terms so ... hermionish ... that it's hard to follow the dialogue.

To make it harder, just then his mobile sounds, startling everyone: Luna, in one of her senseless and random intrusions. "Harry, do you have some of Sirius' music, by chance?". The auror thinks of his godfather, of the whole lot of old disks he found just a few years ago in his room, and it takes him a whole minute to remember Luna still sometimes refers to Stubby Boardman the singer as "Sirius". In his mind, the animagus half laughs half barks, and it has been a while since his godson remembered him that clearly, so he smiles too as he assures Luna he'll try to find some. A welcome distraction. The women still discuss something feverishly. Turning off the cell, Harry approaches.

"What is it?"

They both turn at the same time. Harry blinks. For a moment, he has captured the image of the sorceresses looking into each other's eyes, like one of those strange paintings, where someone sees himself in other timeline, and synchronized movement hasn't but reinforced the effect. Meanwhile, half of the explanation has been lost. The rough engraving in stone hardly illuminated, doesn't mean anything to him. Is that a dragon, or a snake? Hermione rolls her eyes, noticing his distraction. Duham has cleaned part of the window with the sleeve of her cape, trying to see through.

"We have no excuse to go in" Hermione protests in a frustrated whisper.

"Let's go" Duham urges and try to take the lead, until Harry, with gentle firmness, leaves her behind.

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"Minister"

Ron flinches and turns to Luna, hiding his left hand vehind his back; the parchment in his fist protests at his grip. The blondie doesn't look away from the digital map on which he was leaning, her expression, whimsical as ever.

"He also writes to me" she comments.

"How…?"

The woman ignores his question and paces towards the table.

"Wismartles know when you like them. They come to you, they let you hold their tentacles. That's how he became so smart, you know?" she asks, turning to Ron with a bright smile as if saying something meaningful. "Myrddin liked wismartles, exactly as much as all the other magical creatures. It did not matter where they were from. We all live on the same Earth, after all. It's not nice when the place where you are born matters more than yourself."

Ron tenses while Luna, index finger on her chin, bends in an almost perfect arc over the image of the United Kingdom, on which red flags shine.

"Al understands. He doesn't like to be judged by his origin. He also likes wismartles; It's a shame he doesn't see them, yet. You know about the raid, right?" she adds, changing the subject without any change in her voice, "we'll be here at five, if you want to come..."

Ron stares at her, wondering how much of her wisdom, or her imprudence, he must fear.


	8. On the matter of nightmares

_"__Partnership" the ghost Auror said._

_Sitting __on thin __air and leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, the silver scars on his face were even more __evident __to the terrified __trainees __in front of him. Some could not look away from the burned chin, the __missing __ear. __They barely paid attention to what he was saying. __There was a great distance between a relatively healthy ghost (saving the distances), and one in pieces. Most, however, struggled more or less successfully to take note (probably more than if they were before a less impressive teacher)._

_"__The fifth use of empathic potion. Companions. __To bond __an auror __to another so intimately__, that one perceives the presence of the other through a wall, is able to track him or her by smell, knows if he's bleeding from afar and without looking. Its usefulness in missions can be incalculable. The depth of the interpersonal bond determines variations in the magical bond; Cases that share a source of magic have been described. It's possible to share life force for short periods of time."_

_A couple crossed looks. A witch smiled tenderly. The auror's expression hardened._

_"__And let me open a small parenthesis. There is nothing worse for an auror than to associate with another."_

_The sorceress's smile froze under the ghost's harsh gaze. Michael shrinked in his seat in such a way that actual magic might have been involved._

_"__Marriage" the ghost continued. "__I don't care what you think about it. Aurors don't marry anyway, no time for that. Be parents together? Animals do that__too. And who brings children to this world knowing exactly how dark the magic is out there? But partnership..."_

_His gaze seemed to drill into his skulls and yet those accustomed to deal with ghosts would be able to see the clouding of his eyes._

_"__You go to the rite with that auror -best friend, family, acquaintance, whatever. You pronounce the spell, drink the potion, put on the bracelet. You play with empathy for a while, thinking stupidly that it's __cool__, magical."_

_His voice had sharpened, contemptuous, and the transparent burned hand had made a ridiculous flourish towards the end of the sentence. Half of the class avoided his gaze by then, moved uncomfortably in the seat, an anxious wizard peered through the door. The ghost's tone of voice became somewhat nostalgic as he went on:_

_"__Then you spend years fighting with that person by your side. And your partner is your best friend, your confidant, your right arm. Sometimes your lover; and yes, I know you know it happens despite the rules. Then, if they remain aurors long enough -and so it'll be, because when one is ready to retire, the other is so motivated that the former dare not tell-, someone gets irreversibly injured. Or dies a hero. It's one of our worst nightmares. You won't know how __excruciating i__t is until you experience it."_

_A wizard dropped his hand; he had been holding that of the nearest trainee, who looked at him without rancor._

_"But you came back", another recruit pointed out._

_The ghost stared at the young man, whose eyes __dropped immediately__. There was a silence, until the ghost decided to answer._

_"Yes, I came back," he murmured, his tone pregnant with sadness. "Having I__eft my partner in a dangerous situation, I couldn't really leave.__As a ghost, my magic had no physical effect, but my presence could distract and warn and offer advice. I was ready to move on. I could not. So we were together, but couldn't touch each other. I had no warmth to offer. Do you think we lived happily ever after?"_

_The tension over the room became unbreathable._

_"Those who partner up with a relative are already screwed up, I suppose, partnering won't add much to the burden. It's in those cases that partnership acquires the dimension the department intended it to have: a means to preserve the security of two aurors. But if you're going to mate for life with someone over whom you didn't have to watch in the first place, better for it not to be related to any romantic ideas. Believe me, it's not worth it. Not counting the probability of the link going wrong and driving you both crazy, and having to put a fellow auror to sleep. A tragedy I've seen often enough."_

_"Autor Granger..."_

_The ghost's silvery gaze turned to the brave witch up front, the one who had dared speak after so long a hesitation that an entire paragraph had fit in between. Amusement turned up a corner of the inmaterial mouth._

_"Yes", he hissed, "she was successfully retrieved. If she hadn't been literally out of the constraints of time, the torture Potter suffered would have lasted less than a year. And believe me, he was in agony. Not knowing what had happened to her, witnessing the loss of hope of everyone around -Mr. Weasley included-, being left alone and literally helpless in his seek and knowing he was impotent and at the same time unable to abandon her himself... I don't recommend asking him about that year. It's an experience just slightly better than mine. And even I consider myself lucky. Others have had a partner taken by the enemy and raped and crucioed all day long, have witnessed from afar as her personality faded, that is beyond nightmarish. That's the very concept of hell"._

_Luna's strangely aerial voice made its way into the room._

_"__I'm sorry, professor. __May__I interrupt?"_

_"You tend to interrupt", the lecturer barked, less fiercely than expected._

_"Wismartles warned me that you were scaring them off," the blonde c__ommented nonchalantly__. "Again."_

_"__Call it experience and I'll agree."_

_The apprentices looked from one to the other as if watching a tennis match. One of the trainees bowed, as if to verify that Luna's feet actually touched the ground, as she appeared to levitate toward the center of the room. Everyone ignored him._

_"They need to learn some truths before going out there", the silver auror warned._

_Luna didn't seem to hear him. When she turned to the recruits, she kept staring slightly above their heads, perhaps looking for wrackspurts._

_"It's nice to have someone watching over you, but it's scary to watch over someone", she spoke to the ceiling, her voice falling on them like fairy dust. "Almost no one dares take the ÉmPathós, though we often form the same pairs anyway. Ultimately, you'll have to watch over your team. Being partners makes it easier… and sometimes more difficult", she added thoughtfully. "P__artnership… It's warmer than marriage. It's thicker than blood. If you come alive out of the Veil, it's because your partner had your back…__"_

_"Yet" the ghost said "y__ou chose not to have a partner__."_

_"__As others do. Like I said, the scariest thing..."_

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Harry almost collides with the door.

"You're fine?" he asks from outside, terror in his voice.

Hermione's comes muffled from inside the room.

"I'm fine."

His fist, still raised, scratches the wood between them as it slides down; his gaze strives to pierce it.

"Just a nightmare. Really" she assured.

He breathes and rests his forehead against the wood, eyes closed, struggling to control his own fear (an echo of the witch's, multiplied). One knee collides with the door making it vibrate. He stares at his own striped pajamas while concentrating on what he still perceives inside his partner through the solid wall she has raised upon waking -a wall less physical yet stronger than the wooden one between them.

It has been a while since he last experienced Hermione's nightmares. He can't shake the image of a silent battalion, wandless but no less threatening because of it, like a dementors' squad. Voldemort's voice. Those images are not of this nightmare, but of another that they shared a long, long time ago; one that terrified her less than this does. Whatever Hermione was dreaming today, fear and despair poison the air even now.

He takes a deep breath. The urge to open the door and hug his partner, to let the contact vanish the images of both of their minds, persists.

He turns sharply and takes one step, another, hurrying as much as his instinct tells him to stay. He doesn't know where he's going, until he enters the bathroom, opens the shower and goes inside, all dressed. Heat is not a substitute, but it's all he has, now. He lets himself slide down the wall and sinks his head into his arms, on his knees. Water slips down his cheeks like tears.

Time deforms as he remembers the old days, shortly after graduation, when nightmares, from one or the other, made their bond nothing short of toxic until they learned to lift the walls. They had been warned. The oldest and wisest members of the department were radically against two war heroes becoming partners. Living it had been much, much worse.

Though neither regrets.

Once, the auror suddenly woke up hearing Hermione's screams in his mind, and disapparated without even getting up from his bed. After landing painfully on the floor, he climbed to the couch where the auror had been sleeping for a week -it helped with the nightmares- and held her for what seemed like hours, wiping away her tears and muttering meaningless words, just for the effect of his voice. Gradually, and only after Hermione had fallen asleep with her head buried in his shoulder, he realized that he was naked. By then, he might have been watching her sleep for half an hour -her eyelashes fluttering like those of a child, the rise and fall of her chest under the beige silk shirt, soft thighs tangled with his own-. Perhaps he wouldn't have noticed it, perhaps there had been other times when he had also apparated here in similar circumstances; this time it was his own reaction that alerted him, and he only took time to gently disentangle from his partner (holding his breath when she shifted and frowned), before disappearing back into his house. It was dawn, but he woke up Ginny anyway and made love to her almost angrily until his wife trembled for the third time in his arms; holding her and listening her soft laugh -lightness of shared pleasure-, he could almost believe it was her who he had wanted to possess tonight. In retrospect, they might have conceived James that time. He never thought about it again. Part of him decided that it was unbearable, considering the circumstances.

Hermione, on the other hand, could not come to comfort him when his personal hell drowned him in sleep. Ginny was there. Both knew without real need for words, that there was a line that must not be crossed. So if Ginny didn't notice his nightmares, he disapparated quietly, and Hermione was waiting for him, lips pale and arms ready to cradle his head against her chest. Unfortunately, most of the time he woke up screaming, and Ginny held him, muttering words of comfort, as he trembled, eyes fixed on the wall, feeling Hermione shake on the other side. She was terrified too, and despite the on and off relationship she apparently kept with Ron –something so vague it sometimes seemed mere appearance-, she had no one. That's why it was almost a relief when she started actually going with the redhead when Harry himself didn't arrive. The idea materialized in the minds of both of them without having to discuss it. Ron had also endured persecution and the power of the horcruxes, if anyone could remotely understand her pain, other than Harry, that was Ron. After the first time, she regularly apparated at Ron's place in the middle of the night and he held her, eyes veiled with sleep, uncomfortably patting her on the back.

Perhaps this was even what had brought them to the path of marriage.

Harry closes his eyes, feeling the familiar weight on his chest that he doesn't want to name. He doesn't want to remember that time, but his very resolve not to remember reminds him of it.

By then, the very certainty that the partner would be there, had quieted the nightmares of them both for months. Their training as partners seemed to have been a success after all.

That (or perhaps the copious amount of firewhiskey he had drunk) might be why this time her panic attack took him off guard, made him disapparate before even remembering that it was three o'clock in the morning of her wedding night. That time, she was not alone. His partner's nakedness violently threw in his face what he had spent the night trying to drown in alcohol, without admitting it; Ron's made him show his teeth. And the worst: he had nothing to do here. He drew back in the shadows and murmured a disillusioning charm, not willing to disapparate just yet. His gaze could have burned Ron's hand on his wife's bare side. For a moment he seemed to cross glances with his mate over the witch's head. An illusion, probably. He wasn't even visible by then. Hermione would have noticed his presence, but in her confused and terrified state, she was not consciously aware of it, though her anxiety levels plummeted, responding viscerally and primarily to his proximity. That Ron could not incite a remotely similar response was poor comfort as Harry looked hungrily to the woman he could never even dream of having. Finally, Ron made Hermione lie back on the bed, her eyes still open and fixed in the distance. Harry vanished before seeing the husband cover the wife with his body. He couldn't have endured it.

The nightmares, since that night and for a while, were worse. He never dared go to her again in the middle of the night.

"Harry?" he heard from the distance of the present.

"Here."

His voice sounds hoarse, even to him.

He closes the shower and looks for his wand; cursing under his breath, he remembers that he left it in the room. He'll have to drip all over the floor and dry it later. Or undress and finish bathing and towel dry, like everyone else.

"Harry?"

He opens the door with exhausted gestures. Immediately his visual field is filled with brown hair.

"I'm wet."

She ignores it, and Harry closes his eyes and slowly surrounds her with his arms, soaking her even more.

"I'm sorry," she says, like a mantra. "I'm so, so sorry."

She does not say: "Ron woke up with me," but he tenses anyway, and now there is space between them, where there was none. Hermione only half understands. For a moment she struggles to hold him tighter with a despair that she doesn't bother to hide; and suddenly she remembers the dream, freezes, her shoulders fall, she passively lets him set the distance.

"You fine?" the wizard asks; there's warmth in his voice, but the distance persists.

"It was just a nightmare," she deflects.

It was not. Not quite, in any case. She has seen him in bed, bare chested, a sheet covering his hips, and his scars, sweetly traced by a finger that was not his, nor hers. She has heard his deep voice lightly telling auror stories, and has heard a laugh that she knows well. So, so young. No scars, no missions, no years. Hermione loves that laugh. This time, in this dream, she couldn't stand it. The witch doesn't believe in divination, but she knows that it'd be possible. Something is terribly wrong with it. Two layers of evil. Hermione doesn't know about one, and doesn't want to recognize the other. It's scary not to know yourself. Duham's skin contrasts beautifully with that of her mentor.

The terror in him echoes hers. For the first time she hears what he has asked for the third time, shaking her shoulders:

"Hermione, what's happening?!"

"I'll be fine", she replies, absent.

It is more a desire than a certainty, but she closes the portal between their respective magic auras, and probes her partner's spirit. Caring for him diverts her attention from herself. "As long as he's fine..." Harry examines her too. She hears him sigh, relieved. This time the wizard really parts. Hermione doesn't dare say: "hug me", but her eyes fill with tears. Looking away so he doesn't see, she pulls out his wand to dry him.

"You'll catch a cold..."

"I'll take a shower", he interrupts, pushing the wand aside. "I'll be fine."

However, the door hasn't closed, and he already misses her. He knows she's outside the room, back to the door. He thinks she's crying. Hermione has, once again, hidden what she feels behind concrete walls. Harry wants to scream. Instead, he takes a step inside the shower.

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Drying his hair, he enters the dining room and finds a mop of brown hair on a firm body, sitting on a bench before the plateau. In front of the figure, a book resting on a cup. The television, likely source of the voice that attracted him, remains ignored on a corner.

"Hermione, I..."

But the eyes that turn in welcome, are green.

"Hello, Harry."

He blinks, and wonders when going to the mentor's house has become so frequent among newbies. Especially at this time of morning.

"Hello. It's weekend, shouldn't you be sleeping?"

But of course, Hermione has always been a morning person, unlike the boys. Why not Duham?

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" the girl asks looking at her wristwatch and back to the mentor. "I had a book to return to Hermione. She doesn't let me do it in the ministry. Not mixing family with work. You know how she is" she smiles, it's a private joke after all.

Neither of them has noticed the chimney crackling, nor the head spinning in it, and they don't do so until the voice is heard.

"That has to be the best rejuvenating potion in the world", it says vehemently.

They both turn back simultaneously, finding a redheaded head not as familiar as others in the fireplace. It's Hermione who, suddenly entering the room, identifies him:

"Charlie!"

Harry follows her with his eyes as the woman approaches the fireplace, without looking at them. The eyes in the fire turn from one witch to the other.

"She's my sister," Hermione says.

"Well, you and Harry must share blood after all," Charlie comments thoughtlessly. "Aren't those the Evans' eyes?

Working with dragons doesn't tend to develop social skills, on the other hand almost nonexistent in certain Weasleys. The rest have nothing to answer, and finally it's Hermione who breaks the silence:

"I hear you're in Hogwarts, teaching 'Magic creatures', right?

"Just as a substitute." Charlie shrugs. "There have been reports of a species of dragon that was believed extinct, and I came to see if there's some true to the myth. That leaves me a lot, but a lot of free time. Listen, guys" his gaze shifts to Harry almost with shame, "I know this isn't among your duties but… the vocational speech of San Mungo's staff was cancelled at the last minute, and we have a classroom full of seventh year students, waiting for a professional to talk about his career..."

"No" Harry utters vehemently.

Everyone turns to him.

Actually, he has answered without thinking. He remembers very well his first years as an auror, how they freely manipulated his figure, sending him here and there more as a symbol than as a soldier. He remembers those motivational speeches at Hogwarts, all those bright-looking boys who three years later were in pre-auror and six years later, dead. He went to the funeral of each one of them, sat down with their mothers, listened to their thanks, and it was increasingly difficult to suppress the self-destructive comment: "Did you know that it was me who encouraged him/her to be an auror?" He wonders if, had someone else gone, they would have chosen another career. If they would still be alive.

He doesn't see Duham look at the empty space on his other side and nod before volunteering:

"Can I go in your place? I miss Hogwarts."

Hermione keeps looking at her partner, who avoids her gaze, as she replies:

"Duham and me must suffice. We represent two different generations. I think it's better this way."

Harry stares but doesn't protest.

"Great, I'm going to inform McGonagall. You can use this fireplace."

When Charlie disappears, Hermione is already reaching for her own flu powder. She doesn't turn back, not even to verify that Duham follows her.

A turn in the chimney, a step out of it and she can finally breathe. It smells like Hogwarts - a mixture of parchment and fire and moisture, an acquired taste - she automatically feels like belonging. Not that she has been in this room much, but these are the same gray aged walls, the same strange and familiar pattern, the same magic beating in the cracks of the walls.

Duham takes the lead.

"So many memories, right?" the girl asks.

Hermione strives to swallow the remnants of her nightmares. It feels like fiendfyre: evil and devouring. The atmosphere helps. Enough memories of everyone laughing in front of the fireplace at the common room, planning at the girls' abandoned bathrooms, afternoons at the library, nights walking these same halls, with Harry's breath on her neck and Ron's elbow digging into her ribs under the increasingly narrow layer. Of Harry leaving to risk his life but also returning. Returning.

She doesn't know how Duham spent so many years in this school without friends. Of course, Hermione herself would have faced that destiny, had it not been for the blessed troll.

"Ma! Shouts a familiar voice."

Hermione has barely turned around when Rose collides with her. As much fan of hugs as her mother.

"Rose!?"

"McGonagall m'a dit d'être son aidante!" the girl announces, without further greeting.

Now both are red with excitement and smiling broadly, and Duham knows right away that during the next 10 minutes they won't notice her absence, too busy with Rose telling in French what would take a lot less time to tell in English. So she slides discreetly to the corner, shaking her head but smiling all the same.

"I wish they had offered me something like that," she mentions to the bald boy next to her. "Not even Mia received the honor."

"It doesn't matter," he replies, looking at mother and daughter coldly. "There's no use for McGonagall at this point."

Then, another figure collides with her back: a boy so similar to her own mentor that Duham is left speechless.

"Hello," he pants. "Who are you?"

Green eyes meet others equally coloured, and just then another boy, with dishevelled blond hair, comes running to stop abruptly in front of them, hands on knees, panting:

"I hate... when you leave me behind..."

"Duham" she reaches out to the first newcomer. "You're Harry's son, aren't you?"

"Al," he introduces himself, not asking how she knows her father, and grimacing instead.

"Scorpius" the other one greets without looking at her. "Malfoy."

"What are you doing here all alone? I thought who had come was... Hermione!"

Al's gaze has traveled the room until finding her, and now the boy catapults into the auror, almost making her fall to the floor, though Hermione laughs while greeting him in German. The boy's answer is far more hesitant than those of Rose in French. They start chatting, everyone in a different language. Duham, having received lessons from his sister, can follow it quite closely until something more urgent appears.

"Draco dormiens ..." the whisper from her side comes.

Duham shudders and turns in time to see young Malfoy furtively draw a claw over his heart. He's a child, his intended impassivity involves too much pride and anyone could see through his secrets.

"... nunquam titillandus" she completes, anyway. "How did you recognize me?"

"My father's first name was not chosen at random," the boy says.

Duham likes him. It's the other boy who points his reddish brown eyes towards the newcomer, with a rictus on his lips.

"It's a weakness," he points out.

The apprentice shivers. She heard the order perfectly: "Kill him." She agrees that such secrets are not to be told to eleven-year-olds, but if Scorpius were to give them away, Albus would know something, he's his best friend. It doesn't seem to be the case. In any case it's no reason to make him disappear. She likes Scorpius, with his hair perfectly combed and his book under his arm.

She also likes Albus. She knows that, like her, he has a lot of problems because of his parents.

"Being the link is my mission," Scorpius says.

That clears things up. While she doesn't understand why such a young student, almost without influence, has been chosen for this.

"How's it going?"

"The director has discovered the existence of the club. Knowing that students from other countries are not admitted, she has banned it instantly. The Ministry's intervention has made her tolerate it, but hardly. She might complain to Rose's mother" the boy warns, staring at Hermione. "My father fears the Minister's reaction."

"Weasley is weak," the older boy judges.

"He'll hold on," Duham resolves. "He knows what he bets on it."

His interlocutor fixes reddish eyes on the girl. He was her first mentor. The witch knows what he's thinking: "too many loose ends". In addition: "you are also weak." For a second, she's afraid, but by now she knows that if he hasn't disposed of her, it's because he cannot.


	9. On the colour of magic

This chapter is intense. Originally it went together with the next one, but it became too long. That scene with which the raid begins is a tribute to lorien829. My respects. Another author that has demonstrated –thoroughly– that there's talent in the fandom, even more, sometimes, than in the original writing.

My English is rather rusty since I started French again. I'm working on that. In fact, I took extra care and it would be even less noticeable than it was in previous chapters.

About the color of magic

_"In this line of work," Hermione began, walking among the tables where the recruits sat, staring at the book in her left hand as the right one held the wand, "you'll often be exposed to what you seek to destroy, that is, dark magic"._

_Duham sat in the front row, a spot of ink on her nose; her pen was a blur, noting the lesson to its every word. Two apprentices at the back were still talking and laughing discreetly, or so they thought. Hermione released a nonverbal "Silence" to them both. She couldn't be upset with them: they reminded her too much of her own friends; but she seriously doubted that they could complete the training with that amount of discipline. She made no comment._

_"It takes many different forms," s he continued. "A few are easy to recognize: death, pain, loss of autonomy" the spell for the three Unforgivables wrote itself in green fog in front of her "but the really dark magic is the one that takes what you most desire and turns it against you... the one you can't or won't fight against... no matter what you lose..."_

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Harry looks away from the wake that Percy seems to have left at his exit, and towards the open door. Through it he can see Ron's back, shoulders sunk, head so low –in his hands, judging by the position of his arms– that he seems not to have one right now. His own brother, in every way that really counts. Stepping soundlessly, he finds himself standing by the redhead. His hand hovers over the man's back without touching it, the air in between wears the thickness of Hermione's skin. It's Ron's shoulder what makes contact, when the redhead straightens. Blue eyes find green ones. Ironically, it's not the friendly warmth what bears the recognition, but the bitterness behind, like the distant glow of a fang.

Ron's hand shudders, then it comes to pat his, pressing it against his shoulder.

"You okay, mate?" the auror finally asks.

"Ministry affairs" the politician replies, elusive. He stands up with the deliberate slowness of the elders.

Harry turns back his head, remembering the cautious, masked expression of the other Weasley. How on earth he ended up missing his pomposity? Ron's shrug didn't fool him in the least, but he doesn't push. There are issues that a whole lifetime of talking won't solve, and they have stumbled upon some of those too many times in recent years. They are men now. Ron deflects the subject:

"Raid, tonight, huh?"

"Two nights of hard work in a row. Sometimes it would seem as if aurors didn't have a right to sleep", he jokes. "We are no longer twelve years old" a pause, and then. "I wish you were there with me".

"Sometimes, me too," his colleague replies, in all honesty.

They look at each other, and it's almost a relief that sometimes death is so close, because things are rarely as clear as they are right now. Friendship, as unconditional. There's no place for mean rivalry when the possibility of losing half of the original duo is this obvious. Green eyes meet blue ones, as they did in the Hogwarts Express, even before Harry knew of Gryffindor's existence. Ron reaches for Harry's hand and leaves something in it: a pair of necklaces, removed from his pocket so recently that part of the chain is still in it.

"In case things get ugly…" he comments "Portkeys…"

"We can't have a way out if nobody else has," Harry protests; Ron freezes as they both recognize Hermione's morality behind her partner's words. The answer remains the same.

"I can't make more portkeys without further explanation. Take as many with you as you can. Save as many as you can, if things get ugly" and there's a pause until Ron adds, wholeheartedly: "Take care of her".

She would be furious if she knew about this male, protective agreement they seem to have settled long ago and without as many words. Or she might not be. She would understand. Knowing them as she did, she'd just recognize this as the only thing about their partnership that Ron accepts without reserve.

"Take care of yourself," the Weasley adds, without no less sincerity.

And they hug, patting each other's shoulders in a masculine gesture that attempts to relieve the discomfort. They really love each other, and sometimes they forget it. Harry wonders confusedly when this became so twisted, what have they done to deserve this –the friendship, or the distance.

He doesn't contemplate the part Hermione must have played in it, because if he did, if he as much as thought: "I haven't touched her, in any way remotely inappropriate ", wouldn't it be a confession in itself?

And then, suddenly, a younger expression is back in the prematurely greyish but still red eyebrows.

"And if you die, you'd better leave me your card collection."

"Nah, bury me with it."

"Your broom, then," the redhead negotiates.

They both hear the snort, then.

"Honestly ..." Hermione protests, arms crossed, rolling her eyes.

Something in Harry's chest swells, and he finds hard to keep his eyes dry. He's getting old, perhaps. He's just glad they can all still be friends, even if just one last time.

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John is so massive that the world map, hanging on the wall beside him, actually looks small. Legs spread, he seems to cover a whole side of the table on which the diagram lies; on the other side, the rest of the aurors (everyone available tonight) squeeze, following the instructions. Triangles represent the enemies, and large crosses, the objects to be confiscated. There are many triangles and many crosses: trafficking dark magic on portable format has always been a good source of income.

"The goods are here, here and here" he points at three squares. "Most of you will be a distraction. The teams I'm about to call are the ones in charge of recovering the merchandise. Evade, do not fight. We split here. Beyond this point, you are all by yourself; if caught, you are on your own. Fight with everything you have. Unforgivables, if necessary. Merlin knows they'll be. Minotaur" the youngest auror, Thad, raises his head proudly, while the man next to him follows his response with a frown "is in charge of room A, with Nail Clippers..."

A chuckle, and John looks up only for a moment; Edgard seems puzzled but doesn't dare ask. Obviously, it's the intended reaction. Before going out on a suicide mission, some laugh can't hurt.

Hermione ignores them as she looks up, at his partner, who's still exploring the map. A distracted hand scratches his forehead and continues to his hair where he tangles fingers distractedly. The witch looks around. No one else has noticed.

Her gaze falters on Thad and Vince. Three years ago they were all here: Harry and herself, Vince and Melissa; hours later Vince had been left without partner or any desire to go on fighting, and with the added stress of Thad joining the Force, like his parents before him. She doesn't know how the veteran had the courage to drink that potion again, with his son no less. Harry's heat radiates towards her, and Hermione focuses on this: on the physical evidence that he's alive; with that hole in her stomach of not knowing how much longer he'll be. Thad wears his mother's bracelet.

"… Buckbeack" she turns her attention to the lead just in time, "room C. Alone. Will it be a problem?"

The witch shakes her head. Harry stares at John, then turns to her, eyes bright. She's left breathless. All the coldness of recent times is gone, a temporary truce. Suddenly, she knows he's also recalling Melissa's last night. She forces herself to look forward, to listen to the rest of the assignment –vital information if she wants to be able to protect him– and yet she doesn't think she has understood a single detail.

Blue light jumps from one electronic device to another, synchronizing them automatically. Six minutes left, and twenty, nineteen, eighteen...

"Hermione..." his voice vibrates spreading like fingers on the woman's back.

The forearm carrying her watch descends, forgotten, as she turns. The wizard wears that naked expression of the last moments –hair messed up, eyes narrowed, mouth parted, still deciding what to emit. The golden chain watch hanging from his pocket stands out against his black cloak.

The rest of the squad goes ahead. The tide drags them through the narrow room. It pushes them apart. It drives them together. Their hands meet, fingers rub against each other's, his lips are thrust a little too close to her cheek. They are almost –and paradoxically– anonymous in the middle of the crowd. It's incredible how much noise those few aurors could make just before a mission in which they all were virtually inaudible.

"Hermione..." he breathes, again, this time in her ear.

The enchantress shudders, a reflect –warm breath on her icy neck–; she stares at him. Waits. Harry himself doesn't seem to know what to say. He knows, too well, what he can't say. Each vigorous push of their brothers and sisters make them breathe in each other's breath. No contact. Two friends, just two friends, alone? Colleagues, saying goodbye, just in case. "Promise me..." It's Vince's voice, desperate, some of what might be his last words to his son. Half of the wands are at the ready.

Finally, Harry's lips form a bitter line. He seems a beggar staring at a feast through a window.

"It has been a privilege... to have you as my partner."

And Hermione chuckles, an edge of hunger and resignation barely there. And he smiles back.

"Who says that kind of thing nowadays? Seriously..." he had protested, picking up another card. They had been watching a suspect, that night. (In such occasions, muggle games whose charm other sorcerers couldn't fathom kept the tedium away.) Hermione had stared at him, wondering why Harry occasionally acted like an idiot, what kind of attention he thought he earned with it, especially knowing how many times solemn honest words had been simply a part of his schedule. Finally, somehow, she had ended up asleep on his shoulder while he took the first watch. "A privilege".

Someone walks past Harry, inadvertently shoving him aside, and his lips, near her ear, brush against her cheek. The woman shudders, looks back at him, eyes veiled. The wizard's fingers twitch on his wand, and the other hand –his left – rises to grasp the bracelet, barely touching skin. Hermione mirrors the gesture. Their left arms become bond and barrier, while the magic of the bracelets is recharged in a whirlwind of colours. Harry's hand stays an extra second.

The apparition disorients them both. Trees all around. The shadows of the disillusioned aurors move, barely visible waves in the still air. Hermione's step is almost soundless, but Harry recognizes it among the others, and follows it. Invisible hands rub. 'I'm here'.

They hear the explosions from afar. Harry stares at where he expects her to be, and he can almost see her: wide eyes, lips in an anguished line, hands twisting each other; maybe it's just his mind, drawing the gestures he has seen so many times, under these circumstances.

Despite all precautions –last minute reports, apparition relatively far from the target, reconnaissance patrol– the smugglers knew. Nothing strange, in these cases, with so many galleons at stake.

They dive into the battle bending under multi-coloured rays that bring immobility and death. Hermione shrieks a warning. The green light would have touched him, if not for it. He no longer wonders how she knows exactly where he is, despite his invisibility. Suddenly he feels her to his back, and he knows that the usual shield is raised around them. He forces himself to remain silent, not to attack. The disillusioning spell doesn't help much if you go emitting sounds and lights like a Christmas tree. The enemy cast spells, but randomly, and Harry and Hermione have no problem leaving them behind.

Here's the goal: a crack in the ground. Harry hears her muttered protests: it'll be almost unapproachable. Now that the smugglers were notified, the hole releases magic every few seconds: defenders cast random spells, and being invisible is useless since, in the narrow space, those are almost impossible to avoid. He can almost hear the well–oiled machinery of his partner's brain, checking the strategy for such cases –something based entirely on the Weasleys' fascination for muggle devices, and on some of those impossible ideas of Luna's. Near the stairs, Hermione produces an ancient airplane toy and she splits a candy in two.

"I do hate shrinking" Harry sighs and tries not to choke with the sweet as it sticks to his teeth.

The witch whispers a relieving spell as his bones start changing sizes, then she places both of their wands in the proper hangers of the airplane, all before biting her own half of the candy. He's already mouse-sized and braced on the airplane, by the time she starts changing. Unashamedly, he watches her hold her clothes against her breasts –they take an extra second to adjust to her new size–; her cheeks turn rose, but she makes no comment.

Just then, the team watches the plane apprehensively. Even Harry doesn't like it not being a broom or even a sensible creature. He'll have no control over it.

"Come on" she finally sighs, "it won't spontaneously turn into a pumpkin."

A hand on the closest wing, he jumps right into the second seat.

"Belt and helmet" the muggle–born reminds him, securing herself.

The surrounding noise deafens them. Earth itself shakes with the steps of naturally tall friends and foes. The droning of the mechanical device isn't that reassuring, either. Cursing the magical interaction that forbids shrinking good old brooms, Harry buckles his helmet while Hermione begins to manipulate the control.

Rising creates a vacuum in their stomachs. The darkness beneath the surface engulfs them before they have time to get used to it. Flying very low, almost at the level of the steps, it's not hard to avoid curses for a good stretch. No one is looking for toy-sized aurors. As soon as possible, they deviate from the stairs and take refuge in the shadows. The plan is to stay that way for as long as possible. Hermione shakes cobwebs incessantly while keeping the plane in the angle between wall and ceiling, following a very long zigzagging masonry that looks like a strange snake. Harry scratches his scar angrily; on top of everything, he's beginning to feel useless.

"Let's go down?" he finally asks in a scream muffled by his size and the plane's engine, "I wouldn't like to be here when the battery… or whatever keeps this flying… runs out."

They're already in the corridor. The witch frowns, hesitant.

"Please," Harry insists. "There's no one here, and this is driving me crazy."

They realize their mistake a second too late: while already recovering their natural size; some furniture explodes and Hermione stifles a shriek. Harry turns around; he's behind her now, covering her. His gaze hesitates over his various opponents. He can't see how many there are on his partner's side.

"Go ahead!" John orders, raising his voice –mighty as his size– to cover the noise.

The chief stands before Harry as Hermione grabs his arm and drags him away from danger. The survivor sees a flash of green light from the corner of his eye.

"John's fine," Hermione comforts him.

She has turned so he and the battle are both in her line of sight, but he doesn't know whether to believe it. Eye contact was too short. There has been a while since others used to die for him. Air refuses to enter his lungs, and running have nothing to do with it.

By the time they find the next group of enemies – in another corridor that should be empty – Harry's mind has taken refuge in Azkaban. In the reflection of the dim grey light on honeyed hair. In the variety of tones of her voice, when she talks about books, elves, dark wizards they've caught together, or when scolding Ron. In the smell of treacle that engulfed him in that party. Back in her smile, when he told her she was beautiful. In her expression when she spoke of him finding a new love. And with Ron in that office.

"Harry, focus!" he hears the actual Hermione whisper, at his back.

The woman has just summoned another magical shield in front of him, turning her wand under her arm in a moment stolen from her own protection. Delicate but firm shoulders brush against his back as he fights the cloaked wizard in front of him, whose accent reminds him of Krum's. Hermione levitates a plant and drops it on one of the foe's head; green tentacles grasp his neck and make him drop his wand while she finishes the other attacker and turns to help Harry.

In comparison, it's almost too easy.

"You OK?" she gasps in his direction.

"The green light..."

Hermione holds his head, turning it gently towards her, so he can look into her eyes.

"Last time I saw him, he was beating someone's arse."

And this time, Harry breathes, as she fixes his glasses, once again.

"You know he's one of the capable ones" she adds, and repeats. "You're fine?"

He nods, feeling so light he might actually levitate himself. The objects must be right on the other side of the door, and it's open. He mutters standard identification spells and quickly disassembles the guards around the door. There's a trickier one; Hermione steps forth and mutters something in Latin that he doesn't identify; the protection shines and disappears. "Brilliant" he thinks; she smiles, as if having heard. Her back is now against the wall aside he door; Harry moves to the other side of it, scrutinizing through the opening. He nods towards Hermione and moves forward.

"Harry, come back!" his partner's frantic whisper brushes against his ear.

Harry shrinks, but no light hits him, no object grabs him, so he turns and smiles, letting her know that everything is fine.

Then it starts.

He feels himself being shoved against the wall and raised. He desperately tries to fight, but his fists have also been pushed to his side, the wand lost, and he can't raise his knees. "It's a trap," his frantic heartbeat says, too late. He cries for Hermione to leave, but when he looks at her, he knows she isn't listening; her expression is totally serene, eyes half closed. She's like a ghost, floating at his level, without being tied, like he is, by invisible cords. No, she's not far, but she's indeed unreachable. Even being so close that the man has started to react as he did during training.

"Hermione, wake up!"

He thinks he has seen a response, but her hands aren't the ones he saw move. Large male hands come from the sides of the female body, meet up front, and a head appears behind the sorceress's shoulder, mouth resting on her neck, so all he can see, is hair. The anger, the jealousy, the wish to destroy, are all the same when the phantom hands possessively lean on one of the breasts and between the appetizing thighs of the woman, and the soft moan that his mate emits in response, stabs him as the worst of betrayals. Possessive. That's exactly how he feels. She's his. She's supposed to be his. He's painfully aroused, wishing, craving, _longing_ to touch her that way. The soft clinging of his belt makes him look down, at another spirit that kneels before him, with her warm hair and her silky skin and her softness of moves, and he doesn't know what to feel when his maleness is engulfed by something warm and wet.

Then he feels the ground and gasps, and knows that the illusion has been broken when he sees Hermione, very much awake, reaching for their objective and lifting it. He almost smiles, full of pride. His partner. His. But then it's she who drops to the floor, and everything around him seems to collapse. Not literally, this time. The magician crawls frantically to her side, not knowing nor caring for the wand he doesn't have anymore, his twisted glasses, or the magic winding around him, whose shade no longer matters.

Hermione lies on something soft. The air is cold, but she's warm, hotter than she has ever been. Harry's left hand fondles her left nipple, as his mouth sucks her right, making noises as obscene as arousing under the circumstances; his other hand crawls to the place where she craves him the most. The touch is electrifying; the tension builds fast in her belly. A tension, a desire, a longing for that part of him now pressed to the exterior of her right thigh. A part of her knows it to be an illusion, since she knows she's a teenager and, at the same time, she retains forty years of memories. It's Auror 101. She doesn't care. It's the weak point of Auror training. What if you don't want to wake up?

The enchantress reaches for her partner's thighs and upwards, caressing him, and she hears him, feels him, growl against her sensitive skin. Warmth spills between her own thighs – the vibration readying her instantly –, purrs. The male growl gets louder this time, coarser, almost split in two. Her bracelet burns and Hermione also begins to feel his confusion, his desire. Trembling arms hold his broad back, nape, and she half sits until her lips reach his neck, where she places them in an almost chaste kiss that slips all the way to his mouth. There she pauses, briefly. Chocolate eyes open and meet green ones.

"I love you," she whispers coarsely. "And I want you so much..."

Harry lets her guide him to her lips; he dazedly allows them to claim his –a ludicrous part, in fact, of everything he is, of everything she and only she possesses in him–, breathing in her scent of treacle and pumpkin and leather and something unique to her. He feels her lips tremble, barely, at some point, but it's only when she parts and there is not the shock he would have expected, that he knows the illusion ended back then, if she was fooled by it at all.

The witch stands and helps him up, eyes sad and all masks useless before the other half of her soul.

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Preview:

Hermione walks down the stairs slowly. An old tunic shields her body from the chill, but not so much from his eyes. Still hidden in the shadows, he ravenously watches her descent, the gentle swaying of her hips, her graceful legs and the cloth drawing the space between her thighs. Pure rage makes hard for him to breathe. Impulsively, he steps forth and waits for her to spot him. She would have felt his pressence anyway, if she were alert.

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Author's note: I still don't get why the fandom in English is so shy. With my Spanish version of this story I've made lots of friends. Come on, folks, let me know how you feel. I don't bite, I trully don't.


	10. Hunger and the beast

Several quotes in this chapter.

The title belongs to a fantastic story of a friend of mine.

See if you identify the phrase of "Wuthering Heights" I used.

See you at the end.

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Hunger and the beast

_The know-it-all raised her hand as her partner-to-be stared at her, amused. Advanced alchemy was much less interesting that it sounded, so by interrupting the professor's endless speech, she was doing everyone a favour. Even the lecturer, who, having worked as an auror for most of his life, didn't remember nearly as much alchemy as he was supposed to._

"_Miss Granger" Auror Albert called, lowering the book he had been reading aloud, as he did in every class. "Our female celebrity. Another question, I assume?"_

_Apparently, the incident with the philosopher's stone was well known among alchemists. The comment was made without malice, and she just ignored it._

"_If I follow you correctly" Harry snorted: of course she did, she had read the same book in advance, "alchemy can create gold and prolong life. How come it can't get rid of hunger? Lust? Sorrow?"_

_The professor blinked, white eyelids covering pink irises only for a moment. The man's albinism was kind of hypnotizing, especially when he walked beside his own partner, Isabel, a spectacular woman who had only one white thing in her whole anatomy: her teeth. But Isabel was their training auror, so both war heroes were used to the contrast._

"_Potions can numb those instincts" was the Auror Albert's reply._

"_They can't make them disappear."_

_The professor left the book aside and sat on a corner of his desk, playing reflexively with his short beard._

"_And why would we want them to disappear?"_

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Faint light had glittered on the portkey as it turned, hanging from Harry's hand.

"Ron's" he had muttered while extending his arm towards her.

And with a mental sigh, Hermione had realized they were not following procedure, again. Honestly, what was so bad about rules?

"Now you'll want to go there and save some other people" she had summarized.

"Go back" he had confirmed. "Take the merchandise, make sure it gets to the right hands"

That's why they have their own cold war going on as they crawl back to battle. They already did all the talking, all the "you are a single parent to three" and "Ron'll kill me if something happens to you", but both of them have the means to save friends, and none of them leaves without the other; they were still arguing as Hermione spelled the retrieved objects to disappear straight back to Ron's hands, that was the end of the open argument.

And frankly it isn't as if they could draw more attention to them as they sneak between enemies' constantly moving feet, going from corpse to corpse to see if there's someone still to save.

Max has a hole were his stomach was supposed to be. She puts him to hibernate, but his body is dying faster than she can move him. She knows that according to triage, he's black: he must be left behind; but those she has reached were beyond even this amount of hope.

Beatrice's skull is open, dripping blood and cerebrospinal fluid. Harry finds her half sitting on a corner, twitching as a shortcut robot. He holds her hand. She might have felt him, after all, or maybe that smile was just another reflex of her broken body. The urge to go, to find someone alive, to find hope, to stop looking at her dying eyes, grows with the passing minutes. Memories of this dying woman he has barely known, mix with more familiar ones, of another woman, another soldier, no less brave than this one, whose death would mean his. Strange, how the experience of death brings life forth. In the edge of his consciousness, what transpired between them in the secured room.

Something holds Hermione's leg. The lioness shakes it violently, swallowing the scream as she withdraws from the threat. It's a stranger, a girl; the wand in her hand lacks the better half. This enemy is in much better shape than the aurors, but Hermione can't hold it against her: she's dying anyway. The auror barely hesitates before taking her near Max.

Harry deviates the spell when it's about to hit Melody, and is nearly caught because of it, but he moves fast enough. Then, a scream. A female one. He looks for Hermione, biting his urge to cry out her name; then he remembers their empathy, and learns through it she's OK, if shaken. He can only hope the screamer was none of his friends. He finds his partner anyway; she's performing a magical CPR on another lost cause. A look, and he learns not to tell her so; she knows it anyway.

"Let me" he says, not losing a hearbeat between her leaving the nearly corpse, and his taking her place. One… Two… Three… She watches him for a moment, silent tears dripping from her eyes. "There's another one 'round the corner" he suggests. Only when she's several meters away, he slows down, lets the auror rest. Another auror meets his eyes, identical resignation in his expression. 'There's nothing else you could do.'

The first signs of collapse aren't exactly missed –and it was to be expected, with all those spells hitting walls underground- but everything happens so fast, they don't even have time to gather. Through fleeing soldiers of both sides and cracking pillars, she stares at him, he stares at her, and she nods. Four injured aurors are on his side of the growing wall of rock, and she might not have strength or magic enough to safely transport all of them to the nursery, anyway. As they start losing sight of each other, the words she said shortly after, echo in his mind: "I love you", she said. "I want you". It's love, and it's guilt, and it's hunger. His last look to her is openly haunted. He activates the portkey a second before his place is taken by the biggest rock.

So she turns, and goes to find more corpses, even more corpses than she found earlier. She cries silently as the dying ones cry much more loudly. Memories are her haven. In her mind, she's solving a puzzle with Harry –seven bottles-. She's flying on a hippogriff. She's in the Ministry of Magic, and Harry is fussing all over her. She's standing by Harry's side in a graveyard. She's flying on a dragon, and seeing Harry resurrect in Hagrid's arms.

But she's also in a nightmare of falling rocks and blood, so much like the one that was Hogwarts, those many years ago. And she's protecting something she holds dear, something inside of her, but she can't remember.

Nor has she time to do so.

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"_Stay still!" Hermione ordered, frowning. Harry straightened his back, and with it, the upper half of his body; nowadays there were three people in the world that had that effect on him: McGonagall, Auror Isabel and Hermione, and despite her age, the latter was the one who bore the strongest effect when furious. The girl rubbed the bruise of his neck with hands that were still fairly gentle in comparison with the lecture. "Honestly... This is so unprofessional... Even if you're married ... Can't you be more cautious?"_

_Was she really upset? Harry sought her gaze, but the witch forced him to regain the posture. He fixated his eyes instead on the multi-coloured lights of the TV while wondering if she had inadvertently glamoured his neck since this morning. If someone else in the department had noticed, they certainly wouldn't have left him alone for the rest of the year or so. But maybe the bruise wasn't that scandalous and Hermione was simply overreacting. He shuddered at her touch and looked away. Having her working on his neck felt strange. Anyway, she was his best friend, wasn't she? So he gathered enough courage to mutter an excuse:_

"_We were just saying goodbye!" Hermione snorted, but after a while, he went on: "These mother-daughter trips are disturbing. Mrs Weasley has to stop being so possessive."_

_The improvised nurse hushed him angrily. _

_At the time, they were in Hermione's bachelor home, a sort of living room plus kitchen plus bedroom, all in one, which she insisted was enough for her needs at the moment. It was certainly practical to be able to summon everything from the bed. There were bookshelves from floor to ceiling all around, Harry found funny not to see the colour of the walls. Anyway, the most important thing in the room today, was the TV set. Ron found it extremely boring ("So you can watch it only from that side" he had concluded in a disappointed tone of voice as he circled the black box), but for Harry, watching TV had been a forbidden pleasure during his childhood, and now, married to a witch, he didn't have electricity; he found in the muggle magical box an attraction comparable to the one Ron felt for food._

_"It'll have to do" the girl sighed heavily._

_"Thank you" he muttered._

"_No lights off" she answered with a severity her childish pajamas belied. "I still have lots of paperwork to work on."_

_Her writing desk was in fact covered with files that reached well over her head, though she had built the pile leaving a window-like space right between the level of her eyes, and the TV. Harry wondered if she had used magic to do so. Now he just sat cheerfully beside her, not doubting for a second of her capability of following whatever emission they chose. The bright witch was as good at multitasking as she was at everything else. Despite her nose being stuck in paper, she even managed to explain to him, between dialogues, the teen series that was on air. She herself had apparently been following it when off duty._

_"Let's see if I understood," Harry summarized, frowning as if it was a particularly tricky Transfiguration homework: "Joey has known the blond… Dawson? for like… forever, she sleeps in his room, they communicate with their eyes and all the romantic stuff, and that's why she's with everyone except him?"_

"_Chip" the girl asked; he made three of those levitate to her mouth, and she bit them without as much as a delay in her writing. It was a habit they had picked during training. Pragmatic and effective._

"_I don't get it"_

_Hermione didn't answer until way after the series was over. Folder closed, lights off, she sat beside him, the remote in the hand whose elbow lied on her raised knee. _

_"I don't get it either". Having forgotten the question, he just stared at her as she clarified: "Apparently, Joey's afraid, Harry. Afraid of her feelings. She's not sure she knows how to be an individual anymore, how to live without him. There are people trying to find that kind of closeness, without fully appreciating how dangerous it might be. She's on the other side of it: she's paralysed by fear."_

_A noise made them both turn around suddenly, wands at the ready; but it was only Ron, crawling through the window and straight to the bed._

_"I didn't know he was staying here," Harry commented, removing one of his mate's shoes as Hermione removed the other one. He ignored the tightening of his chest at the idea._

_"Only when he gets drunk at the bar next door," she replied._

_Harry chuckled, and from the glow in the girl's gaze, he knew she wasn't remotely as angry as she wanted him to believe. The TV's multi-coloured lights highlighted Ron's open mouth and huge feet._

"_Have you discussed it with her?"_

"_Sorry?" Harry asked, turning to Hermione's profile, cut against the window, a vague shadow with a remote control in her hand. _

"_About being partners..."_

_"Come on, Hermione..." he laughed, running his hand through his hair. "It's more or less taken for granted, ever since we entered the Academy..."_

"_Did you explained it to her?" Hermione insisted._

_Harry shifted uncomfortably._

_"She has to know, Harry. Her decision must count."_

_She heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "… find the information by herself…"_

_"I don't think you understand it fully. Being partners is a professional relationship, but the magic at its base... Are you even listening?"_

_Actually, he was more or less distracted. Memories of the night before crammed into his mind, and when he came back to reality, he was sure that Hermione had seen the stupid smile on his face, and that she had not liked it. And he was even surer once the girl hit him on the head with the remote._

_"I don't think you're understanding the importance of this," she reprimanded. "It's not just the ÉmPathós, nor is it just the circle, or the alchemy, or the bracelet. It's a combo of diverse magic that interact..."_

_"Ok, fine," Harry protested, raising his hands, "but Ginny is already not fancying that three–days–long ceremony; if she learns that it used to be for marriage... Do we really have to tell her? Most people don't know."_

_Hermione was silent for a moment, opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally decided to speak._

_"Harry," she sighed; Harry's skin tickled when she said his name like that – this will use everything we feel, and it will make it permanent. It's going to…_

"_Yes, but it does not interfere with our will... It will not force us to anything..."_

_"The suggestion will always be there," the sorceress insisted quietly. "This type of magic is designed to... well... be consummated..."_

_Despite the darkness and the distortion of colours provided by the television, Harry saw her blush, and mirrored it. He almost growls in frustration._

"_There are lots of family members who become partners" the wizard pointed out._

_"It's not the same, Harry. And you know it."_

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The doors hit the wall; Harry is already turning around. He felt her coming. But he's also giving his report, and Luna is not alone to receive it. Hermione pants as she looks at him from the other side of the room.

"Thank Merlin" Ron breathes out.

"We were about to incarcerate him… both of them" the other politician comments, sitting back as he contemplates the scene, intensely amused. Hermione would be strongly reminded of Slughorn, if she was in the mood.

But she isn't. The electricity in Harry's eyes is unmistakable, and the tapestry starts waving with the magic they emanate together.

Luna is the one who breaks the silence.

"Our healers are having problems to control all those new Shinigami."

None of them blink. They all know what that creature (literally existent or not) stands for. How many lives lost, how many more waiting to be saved, and she would help –as she assists in so many matters not belonging to her work description-. However, she needs another second, he needs another second to be sure she's fine, and she'll just stand here, hoping that time cost no extra life.

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"_Isn't it enough study for one day?"_

_"Ron," Hermione scolded, looking up from the thick book she was drilling into Harry's head, "for the last time: if you want to leave, just leave."_

"_You don't even have an exam..."_

_Hermione rolled her eyes, but she explained patiently. Again._

"_There are reasons for the aurors to be updated. At least by reading the circulars. It's our lives we're betting..."_

_"Herbology," Ron interrupted jokingly._

_Hermione slammed the book._

_"Let's see where you two would be if I hadn't learned about the Devil's Snare by the time we faced it in first year."_

_"Maybe we should leave the rest for tomorrow," Harry suggested, standing up while masking his reluctance; he didn't like studying, but it was much easier with Hermione than without her._

_"You stay here," Hermione demanded, turning dragon eyes to him._

_Harry sat down at once. Ron looked from one to the other and crossed his arms before pointing out:_

"_It's one o'clock in the morning..."_

_"Well, if we can't start studying until James falls asleep, this delay is the logical result," Hermione concluded._

_"And you are in no condition to face this kind of schedule," Ron completed._

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Screams fill the infirmary. Not the cries of the wounded, nor of the dying, no. Harry winces, deafened, while holding his mentor in what is more a key than a hug. And the woman struggles. She fights as what she is: the most experienced auror remaining in the department (except for the ghosts, of course). Harry feels as if he were holding McGonagall; it's pathetic and uncomfortable, not dignified at all. Desperate. Harry remembers this same woman's first rule: "a cold mind is the best of weapons"; and it's just the one she has lost.

Over the stretchers, he looks at Hermione, who in turn looks up from the dying man she just sedated. Harry doesn't dare ask her to paralyze their mentor. Isabel deserves more than the coldness and helplessness of an "Incarcerous". Nevertheless, his eardrums seem about to explode, so he closes his eyes and breathe. Despite the volume, he doesn't understand the woman's words, beyond the demands, the anguish, the denial, the simple and visceral need to go with her partner, wherever he might go.

It's Hermione who stands directly in front of her and, looking into her eyes, says quietly:

"Albert is dead, Isabel."

Funny, how those words resound despite the background noise. And now the screams are more agonizing if possible. Harry thinks he caught a vehement and desperate protest. The fervour drives him to believe. The despair... not so much.

"You must calm down, Professor," Hermione compels, perhaps using magic, Harry couldn't say. "We can't understand you like this."

"He can't be dead!" the auror exclaims, more coherent now. "I would know! I'd feel it here!" her fist forcefully hits her own chest between heart and stomach. "He's alive! And you have left him there! I don't need any backup, just give me my wand and let me go…"

Sobs choke the rest of the sentence while Harry holds her up once the woman's knees don't take her weight. He crosses a glance with his own partner. They understood. If their mentors violated the rules, if they became intimate, the depth of their bond in theory would be enough to feel the other one's life force. How to withhold her, then? How to follow protocol? Twenty years before they would have helped her, been her backup. On the other hand, despair itself could be driving her to confess a disciplinary transgression that would surely cost her career.

"If you're right," says Hermione, slowly, "a rescue squad will be arranged..."

"I am right…"

"... but for now, we need your strength here..."

"I'm not here!" the auror protests categorically; Hermione's mouth remains open, not knowing what to say anymore.

Harry's state of mind must be worse than that of his partner, because a moment later he's on the floor, holding his groin, breathless, as his mentor disappears with someone's wand. In a haze of pain, he sees Hermione nearly grab the woman, follow her out. Silence remains behind, deafening. He knows Hermione failed even before managing to stand up, without real conviction.

"Let her go," the occupant of the first bed pleads; Harry turns to him, finding another of his elders; under the sheet, there's a void where the legs should be. "I hadn't go to Hogwarts when Albert and Isabel had already exchanged bracelets. Let her go."

Hermione is back, panting, and in her eyes he sees she heard. "He's more myself than I am". The sorcerer gazes from her to the entrance of the infirmary. His mind tells him he'll not see Isabel again, but it is not as if he had digested it already.

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"_This rune... I know I saw it somewhere!" Young Hermione frowned and bit her lip._

_Harry looked at the door nervously; It wouldn't be long before the examiners found them. And they would be expelled from training. Obstacle races were no joke._

"_What does it seem to you?"_

_"I don't know, Hermione, a horse?" he muttered, on edge._

_"The minister has a pack of unicorns," Luna commented out of the blue. "That's how he avoids being poisoned."_

_That made sense._

_"Hunger," Hermione whispered, opening her eyes. "Yes, I'm sure. Beasts need food."_

_From the spell the apprentice began to whisper, Harry wouldn't remember half a word. Just on the last syllable, he pushed her away from the line of sight while a lumos passed right over their disillusioned heads. The rest of the team remained in the corner, except for Luna, who always seemed protected by the alternative dimension in which she lived all the time; Harry didn't even wonder how the trainer didn't hear her humming. The green-eyed wizard himself stopped breathing until the senior passed by. _

"_Beast. What does a beast need?"_

"_Food?" Harry whispered, thinking about Ron's plate._

"_And females. And territory" Hermione suggested, and began to recite another spell._

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Harry walks through the shadows, taking refuge in the infinity of corners of the house. Even since having finished the most urgent paperwork and being able to set foot in the ministry hall, he has been out there, rambling through a very well supplied street of brothels that reeked of sweat and alcohol, where invitations and laughter came from everywhere, tempting him with the promise of oblivion. He didn't go into any of them. Something told him all the girls in this street wouldn't satiate this rabid hunger he -now more than ever- felt growing into him. But oh how he wanted to try. Starving eyes slid down countless faces, countless bodies, seeking fruitlessly those curves he's certain would fit perfectly in his hands, curves he has felt so many times against him during training, though often covered with much more modesty than the ones he saw today. He didn't put it in words, no. He'd rather think he just misses Ginny, her docile lush body, the discretion and the veil of respectability that marriage provides to cover with an appearance of decency the satisfaction of desire. The auror does not admit even to himself how convenient it was to forget that the object of such desire was forbidden. He flatly refuses to remember what the illusion showed him, or his reactions. It's not as if he didn't care for Ginny, anyway.

The shadows are much scarcer in his partner's home than they were in his. Hermione's presence is balsam and obsession, a drug. He couldn't sleep in his own house, and he certainly won't sleep here.

It seems to him as if the air thickened around him. This place brings forth so many memories, as if one evaded him, making his mind wander through the others as it sought clues. Harry has never liked unsolved mysteries.

A soft crack of old wood made his eyes find its source.

Hermione walks down the stairs slowly. An old tunic effectively shields her body from the sharp cold, but not so much from your eyes. Still hidden in the shadows, he watches her descent, the gentle rocking of her hips, the movements of her graceful legs and the cloth drawing the space between her thighs. Suddenly he cannot breathe, in pure rage. Impulsively, he walks forward and awaits for her to notice him. She'd have perceived his presence anyway, had she been as alert as she demanded their apprentices to be.

She does meet his eyes, and deviates her gaze at once. Harry doesn't lower his. His temper subsides as he askes softly:

"Are you all right?"

She is his partner, after all.

The witch sighs.

"We took it for a memory charm," she said; the frustration in her voice would make him smile, but he also hears the tremor, and it's hard to control the urge to climb the stairs and narrow the space between them until... he doesn't know. "It's been a while since we made such a stupid mistake."

"It was dark magic," the auror concludes. "They are masters of disguise"

She nods, unconvinced. Her hands are restless and wringing, like when she's nervous. She takes another step downstairs.

"Are you all right?"

Now she's staring into his eyes.

"I can't get rid of the... frustration..." he whispers through clenched teeth.

Something primary shines in the green eyes; Hermione is fascinated, as if vampire pheromones were involved.

Not that she hasn't imagined that the effect over him would be similar or worse than what she experienced, but to hear him say it makes her skin tickle in a strange way. She bits her lower lip. His eyes automatically deviate to the gesture. He's unwilling to stop himself from commenting:

"I see you yourself have found a way."

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_Hermione slid quietly from Ron's arms and stood beside the bed. He was smiling in his sleep, for once not only satiated but also confident. She closed her eyes, feeling like the worst of traitors. From the moment she had spotted him, she had virtually thrown herself to his arms –something she wasn't sure she had ever done before–, kissing him with all there was in her. Which was enormously messed up. He had welcomed her and matched her enthusiasm, carrying her to the bed and making sweet love to her with all the experience of almost twenty years of marriage, using his magic both figuratively and literally. And yet, only when he had turned her around, when his caresses could be mistaken for anyone's, when the memory of the illusion she had been in today had washed over her, and before she could push it away, only then she had screamed her pleasure to the room._

_She sat on the stairs, her face between her hands, hoping she could, once again, ignore what it meant._

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The moonlight suddenly seeps through the curtains. The glow in the green eyes is there, again. Hermione wouldn't be surprised to see him become a wolf. It's nothing if not territorial.

Harry sees her blush to her neck (a graceful neck, by all means adorable; a neck he'd die for), knows that he has caused it, and the idea is intoxicating. He's about to confess that he'd love to erase from that neck, and the rest, the very memory of the last hour.

"No, I haven't" the witch wants to answer; and it would be true. She has only proven to herself what she had known all along: that it wouldn't work; that the thirst she feels isn't to be quenched, ever. But she can't really tell him this, could she? On the more material, physical side of the question, he's right. And yet, she ponders denying it –after all, the heads of several babies have come down the same channel, there's no way simple sex can change her pace that much–, but she decides it's ridiculous.

A part of him –a part that isn't mad with rage - thinks, intoxicated, that she's always lovely when she blushes like that.

"You can tell" she answers.

The confession mutates the auror's expression. He looks even wilder, if that's possible. His answer is measured anyway,.

"I can always tell."

Hermione nods, but swallows hard. Even though the magic in bonding has been altered to limit it to danger, so that every intimate detail of the life of an auror does not put his partner in embarrassing situations, it doesn't matter. Mix intensive auror training with being paired up with someone for twenty years, and you have a depth of intimacy very much like that of twins. No need for empathy.

"I knew it too. Every time."

And the silence is electric and dangerous. What they have hangs by a thread. One more admission, and the reasons why loyalty demands them to be split apart will be evident. And it'll feel like being mutilated.

Hermione descends. The tunic draws the space between her legs. She tries to walk past her partner and into the dining room, where the fire would surely crack and dance as joyfully as ever; but as she passes by him, the sorcerer grabs her hand, or rather, closes it over her closed fist. Their bracelets tinkle softly as they collide. None of them turns around. They just stand there, breathing in each other's scent. The wizard suddenly hungers for treacle pie. He refuses to acknowledge the fantasy of pouring syrup on a certain graceful neck and licking it sloppily, giving it time to dribble to that space between her breasts –that place that deepened with breastfeeding, and yes, he noticed, and remembers- so his tongue would have to track it there… And he draws a very cracked breath, still fighting back the image that he has just decided he'll ignore. And longing with all his might, to be under some kind of dark magic, to have an excuse.

The woman slowly opens her fist. Her short nails draw tickling lines in the palm of his hand, and then, between his fingers. For a moment Harry hopes she would intertwine hers with his. Then he hates himself for it.

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The Spanish version is shorter. I hope the hungering effect remains. I adored that imagen of the saving others, but of course my favorite remains being that last scene. And what do you think of her return? The waving of the tapestry and all?


	11. Beginning of days

Author's note: a chapter of memories, so no sense in putting memories in italics as I usually do. Instead, italics will be for a particular scene from Ginny's point of view, a scene that is divided along the chapter –don't we all love dead people talking? The guide in italics follows its chronological order, but memories don't, it's the topic (the "today", and how they live it) what's important here. Italics are also for thoughts and some terms, as usual.

The beginning of days

It's today. This night I'll be husband to the most beautiful... the most wonderful... the most brilliant witch in the whole world.

"You look like an Antipodean Opaleye in mating season" Charlie states, a hand on my shoulder.

Any other day, I'd be confused by the reference, then shrug and keep eating. Today, all I can do is smile.

"Thanks Bro"

The reflex in the mirror -long white tunic, red flower on the lapel- looks as if it wasn't me. I'm not me. I am hers already. So, as all things hers, I am perfect.

So I no longer think as the kid that goes to the dance with the worst tunic ever. I'm no longer the loser.

I don't think, either, about Percy's pompous congratulations, or the way George took me aside and asked me if I'm sure of tying someone to myself for life, alternating jokes about missed opportunities with so many other girls on the planet.

I picture Hermione, of her frown when she thinks, of her bright smile when she allows herself to feel, sometimes repressed when she doesn't want to laugh at one of my jokes (sometimes I make them just for that), of the determined and almost defiant way in which she raises her wand before an enemy, or her arguments before anyone willing (or not) to listen.

I know we'll be together tonight, and that single idea looks like all Christmas put together.

Not because of sex -though I can't stay cold when I think of carrying her to my bed.

Because I am the chosen one.

Chosen by her.

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_I remember when everything came together. I had been aware for some time that something was happening, but I did not want to believe it... I mean, the two of them are so fucking loyal..._

_It was getting dark, we were in bed, and Harry had a hand on my belly, barely prominent, but where James was moving like crazy; I remember the laughter as if it echoed around me although it's probably an effect added afterwards. I was still smiling when he turned around, suddenly serious. I still remember his expression: anguish, grief; he was already absent as he apologized. Before I knew it, he was gone. He hadn't even changed from his pajamas._

_Despite my presumed ignorance, it didn't take me a second to know exactly where he was. I didn't call my brother, or the ministry. I just apparated in the living room of my brother's house. Spotless, neat, lightened, full of books._

_I think it was the first time I hated the know-it-all. _

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It's nearly time. Soon, we'll be joined. The sleeves hover over the potion while I stir it once... twice... three times; I wait, holding my breath, until the colour in the wake of the whirlwind clears, as the recipe indicates. I breathe cautiously and the potion's power makes me close my eyes. More intoxicating than amortentia, indeed. I doubted the accuracy of the recipe. No longer. It's not convenient to try it yet, but I can hear, under the bubbling, the distinctive musical hiss that is to be expected at this stage.

"Hermione…"

"Ron…"

I smile at him and, putting behind my ear another lock of hair that hindered my vision, I go back to work. He approaches, so I eye him questioningly, just for a moment. He's better dressed than usual.

"Have you been at this all night?"

If I were really listening, I'd be on guard. I don't.

It's time for that phoenix feather, perhaps the most important ingredient. It's the end of the recipe. Then, there'll be nothing left to do, until we drink it. The mere idea makes my stomach bubble with joy and terror as the potion implodes in a mesmerizing show of Gryffindorish colours. Memories. Harry and I wrapped in red and gold scarves. Harry, Ron and I in the common room. Harry flying in another quidditch match, and I trying to breathe through the anxiety and fear of him falling again.

But the terror is there. How not. Through the magic in this quietly bubbling, innocent looking potion, we'll have to fight Voldemort again. Most of the time I won't even know it's an illusion.

"I still must…"

There is a bang; it startles me, so the ladle falls on the potion. Splash. I mix it hastily. Thanks Merlin its colour has not changed. The golden whirlwind is fading, but that's normal.

"This is delicate, Ron!"

"That's the only thing that matters to you!"

"It'll influence Harry's system for a lifetime! And mine! I have to pay attention!"

"The Ministry staff is there precisely for that! And how the hell did they let you concoct it yourself?!

"No one is to handle my ÉmPathós, except me!

He's livid. Literally. Pale to the lips. Freckles stand out like porridge and milk. I dry my hands on my dress, and for some reason he looks horrified. Looking down I notice the elegant attire Fleur stuffed me in. Attire. Elegant. Oh, Merlin, I missed the date!

As I try to decide how to fix this, Ron seems to notice that only now I realized. He's insightful at the worst possible times.

"Save it," he cuts.

Ron leaves like an exhalation, and I look at the empty door for three seconds before I dare sigh. I have barely thought the question: "What now?", when he comes back, leaves something next to me, and leaves again, without a comment or even a stare. It's a leather bag. I look at the door, at the potion, and since there's nothing left to do to this one, I reach for the package carefully. It doesn't seem to bite. When I turn it upside down, a ring falls on the table.

A minute passes... two... until I sigh again.

"Oh, Ron..."

I can't say it's entirely unexpected. But thankfully I didn't go to the date: I don't know how he'd take this reaction. Years of being together, and it's not a "yes" what immediately rises to my lips. I'm the worst friend ever, for hesitating. At the end, I know I'll take the ring. As if it were my destiny. As if someone had already decided it for me, without asking. What am I supposed to do with this?

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_From where I was, I could hear sobs and protests. She was asking him to leave. She was apologizing for alarming him. Still neither of them controlled what reached the other through the connection they shared. The distress she was in had summoned him. Just like that._

_Of course I blamed them. Irrational? Who cares?_

_Just then I realized how little I had understood, how lightly I had taken the fucking potion and the damn bracelet, in my stupidity, in my faith in my husband's loyalty, in my saviour of the magical world._

_Only then, in my brother's place, listening to her sobs and to the soothing murmurs of my man, I started to suspect the price I was going to pay for it, and it was terrifying._

_He had felt her cry from the other side of town, and had come._

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The time is now. I don't know what for. If the mere thought of Hermione vowing eternal love to Ron is this shocking to me, why can't I find a reason? There's nothing, as far as I remember, that would give me this sense of betrayal and unfitness. All I can think of, is the bond, messing with my brain. So I feel guilt, too. As if I needed more distraction. And yet, even as I stand by Ron, I don't know if I'll be able to stand the sight of my partner…

… so perfect, with that wide smile that I remember from our fourth year, before all went so terribly wrong. Hermione is so incredibly beautiful. Despite her hair, all tamed over her shoulders –it's wild, why don't people get it's wild, like her? -. Despite the makeup, and the perfectly manicured nails around the flowers –I've seen those nails broken and filled with dirt, around her wand, I've seen it and I've felt ready to fall on my knees, in awe, for she's a power of nature, with that wand-. The dress is slightly too white for her skin. Beige looks better on her. Beige, and silk. But of course, it's a wedding.

A wedding.

And before I lose control, I turn my eyes from the witch as I straighten my hold on our empathy -she must feel nothing of this-. I turn to Ron, who's positively dumbfounded, hanging from the movement of her lips as she plays her role. I doubt he hears a word. I hear them, all. And I don't know what I feel, but it burns.

We all surround them: Charlie, Bill, Percy, George, Arthur... and our respective wives –for those who have them...- Men –it's tradition- have their wands at the ready, to make of those, the last words she pronounces as a single woman -and all I can remember, is how Hermione frowned upon reading about this, protesting against sexism in traditional ceremonies of all worlds-. And I think I can't. I think that magic bow is going to miss mine. Suddenly I can't feel anything inside me, but rejection, fear, a wish to go hide in my closet under the stairs, as if Voldemort was out there again, and I had to face him without her.

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It's done. How afraid I was of this, and it's behind me already. I don't know if I did wrong, but as I feel James move under my skin, I know I had a very powerful reason to put her out of reach.

That doesn't mean I'm proud of this show... And again, it wasn't entirely my doing... Who takes the Vote these days?! I swear I never wanted to make it a matter of life or death. An ordinary marriage should have sufficed.

Hermione says it wouldn't. She says that with anything less, her Bond to Harry would take precedence. Of course she didn't get that it was not bonding magic what I was worried about, but passion, common to mortals, muggles, magicians and rats. That she took the time, the effort and the considerable discomfort to explain it in person to me –wife to the person to whom she's bonded- does not alleviate the feeling of guilt. I guess I have no right to be upset now.

I begged my brother not to take the Vow, just to hear him support tradition as he never did before –but I know it was his lack of surety, speaking-. My mother was simply amused that I would take it so seriously. My dad didn't care. Only Harry seemed to take my words seriously, so seriously that he couldn't really discuss it, and I didn't like it, at all.

So, even if it was my wand what made her pronounce the final word, I kept Harry from playing a role. Maybe I was trying to sabotage the rite, though I knew it wouldn't even attenuate the magic behind. It just felt wrong. His very presence here was an anomaly.

A whisper was enough. My husband didn't even turn around, as if he was waiting for it all the time. I don't know what to feel about it. I'd love to believe that it was my whisper what kept him from following the rules, but it was probably because of her.

How hypocritical of me, giving Ron's relationship a boost, and then not wanting Harry to help tie down his partner.

But now everything should be fine... right? Now, everything will be as it should have been from the beginning. Ron and Hermione, Harry and me. If there is a Big Designer, I know this was his plan. I just know.

Pity that our children can't marry, being cousins and all.

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My moment has arrived. As I try to tame my hair, hearing Ginny hum downstairs, I wonder why I think about this in those terms: my moment. It feels more of a prophecy than the sphere I held in the Department of Mysteries.

The moment I'm done buttoning, the clothes embraces my skin, fitting perfectly. I'd be terrified if Hermione hadn't explained it to me and insisted that I tried it when we got it. It's a special uniform, versatile, nearly alive. It cleans and repairs itself. We'll need it. Three days of uninterrupted rite, reliving nightmares... it'd be embarrassing and much more unpleasant without this. Magic never ceases to amaze me.

I'm not nervous. I don't understand how the Ceremony can be a source of anxiety. Nothing will change. We will not –cannot- be more than we are now -friends, that is-. We'll only get a private line, keeping us linked through any physical space. Useful in battle.

And fitting, just as these clothes.

I can't stop smiling. Ginny would say my eyes shine. And she wouldn't have a clue.

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_The funny thing is that until then I hadn't thought of the different facets of loyalty. Until then, it had only seemed incredible to me, to the point of ridicule, that Harry would even kiss someone else, however powerful the connection between partners was and even though I had also heard how frequent it was, among them, and despite prohibitions, to become lovers. Of course, I knew that Harry had been alone with Hermione for months, and that if something had happened between them, he wouldn't have been able to hide those memories from me. So why would I fear their being aware of each other's distress? Why would I complain that the brightest witch of our age covered his back, kept him alive for me?_

_"Stupid, stupid" was a mantra in my mind, while James, startled by the apparition he wasn't used to, at all, rebelled inside of me._

_James, our son._

_Harry's son. Harry, who would never let a child of him grow up, like him, without a father; who would never leave us alone. Who would never even hug another woman in a compromising way. Least of all, she who had been a sister to him for a decade, and who had been, for too long, a girlfriend to his best friend._

_As if Harry needed to take her to bed to love her with all his heart._

_I realized, with all the certainty of a woman, a lover and a mother, that I could give him everything I had, be the best of lovers and give birth to dozens of his children, and I'd never have his whole heart. I realized that there was only one reason why I had what I had: him as a husband, my son. And that one reason was that Hermione allowed it._

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Finally, today. The beginning of days. Magic will test us and judge us worthy. I'm scared? Nah Rather, anxious. If my hands tremble when I fasten the last buttons, it's anxiety. I didn't stop having breakfast, or sleeping, but now I'm impatient to be there. I barely pause in front of the mirror, checking that my hair remains magically smoothed, and the makeup, subtle and elegant, and professional. We'll still be a disaster on the morning of the graduation ceremony, within three days.

A feeling of green hope and golden courage forms a pit in my stomach. Calm happiness. I always thought that I'd feel something like this on my wedding day, knowing that after the ceremony I would love my boyfriend no more for becoming a husband, and at the same time, knowing that the ceremony meant everything. Changed everything.

It could have something to do with the ancient rites. I was ecstatic to read about them, almost intoxicated by the runes and the delicate web of power in this bond. Ties so intimate that they had ended up being uncomfortable to the spouses, long before other spells gave the possibility of breaking, of divorce. Unearthed by the Force for their usefulness in battle. It seemed poetic that they had been forgotten until now. I don't like prophecy, but literary speaking, I do like fate.

I can almost see his hands holding the chalice. _Will you understand the symbolism when your knife penetrates my skin to pour my blood into the chalice? I know what your blood tastes like. I've been bathed in it._

I take a deep breath and apparate at the meeting point, about five minutes ahead of time.

Harry's already there. He smiles at me, without a hint of solemnity. I smile at him. We are back at Hogwarts, exams are over and we are simply spending another beautiful summer afternoon by the lake. So I grab his arm. It's as good a day as any, to relive hell.

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_"I'm so killing your brother," Harry stated._

_If he had looked at me, he'd have noticed._

_But he didn't. Instead, despite her hands pushing him, urging him to leave, to come back to me, he hugged her as if his life relied on it. He rubbed her back. He tangled his fingers in her indomitable hair. And she rested her forehead on his shoulder, half surrendering. There was nothing compromising in the gesture itself._

_It was at that moment that I decided that I had to do something about it. Not when I was introduced to Hermione's alleged sister –though, if there's anything we Weasleys know about, it's genetics-. Not when I saw him take his oath as auror and partner, and take her hand, with that smile that was only hers._

_There._

_And forbidding she set foot in my house for that month, only gave me enough time to take final measures._

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"Look, mom, she speaks!"

"How nice of her, sweetie" Miss Granger answered, distracted.

"She says she likes hamburguers. Can we buy one for her, dad? Can we?"

"Muggles won't allow it" Marv intervened, eyes on the serpent.

"Dear, adults are talking" was Mr Granger's only comment.

Adults had ignored Marv again. Duham started to suspect they couldn't hear him. Without losing a bit of her ever-present emotion, she turned to the glass.

"They say animals don't speak" she hissed.

"Most humans aren't very smart" the creature answered, and Duham applauded, thrilled. "Will you bring me a mouse?"

Duham didn't like the idea of hunting a rodent. She wasn't sure of having seen one, ever. Mom said they were dirty.

"Can we summon one, Marv?"

"I'm sure we can" he commented, eyes shining in delight.

(She had recently learned that word. She also knew that Marv didn't want his delight to be so obvious, and was in fact trying to look neutral. She always knew a lot of things, certainly more than adults expected her too.)

So Duham did what Marv had taught her to: she closed her eyes and extended what Marv called "magic", turning it into cheese smell. It took a second, but then screams started to come from all points, as the ladies noticed the afflux of pests.

The first mouse arriving was too tiny. Duham leant and looked into his eyes.

"Old-salt-milk" the mouse asked, moving his little nose.

She produced some cheese for him. In truth, she thought he wasn't smart at all, but she hesitated as she looked through the glass. The serpent couldn't see him from that angle. The mouse wasn't to blame for not being smart.

"Feed her" Marv ordered, persuasive; his voice sounded excited, so Duham turned her eyes to him and to the serpent, again, and to the mouse.

Duham didn't like the idea of throwing the little mouse to the serpent. The little girl looked at the half dozen other mice that had responded to her bait. She was almost dizzy. She didn't like this, she didn't. She couldn't choose which one was to disappear in his new friend's mandible.

"It smells like mouse" the serpent hissed.

"Hunger" a hairy animal screamed under the chitchat and the isolated screams of the crowd.

"Feed her" Marv ordered once again, red, almost hypnotic eyes shining on the girl. "That's the rule" he added, persuasive, "the weak ones are prey to the strong ones".

"But there's a glass" was her excuse.

"Vanish it, then. A small piece should be enough"

Now she was a bit disgusted, seeing the growing crowd of grey dirty fur undulate, excited by the smell. When she produced another piece of cheese, war started, making her step back at the sight of blood. She had the feeling that the source of that blood was her smallest and more recent friend.

"Aren't we friends?" Marv asked, emotionless.

Duham nodded. He was his best friend, as far as she knew. The one beside her at all times, even after bedtime. Telling her stories and inventing new games, just for her. Keeping the bullies of day-care at bay. Her protector.

"Can't you trust me?"

Duham nodded again, but she swallowed.

"Feed her"

The kid couldn't keep her eyes from the old mouse fighting in the air, hanging from his tail held by an invisible extremity, until the serpent reached him, biting until said tail disappeared into her mouth. She still looked at the serpent, transferring to her all the disgust she had felt towards the crowd of mice, when she felt Marv's hand on her shoulder, then on her hair. She would be worried about him messing her hair –it was hard enough to tame, mom said-, but with him things didn't work like that.

"You have so much talent, Duham" he praised, voice full of ambition. "I expect great things of you. Now, another one" he gasped, thrilled.

Duham looked around, half wondering how come that adults didn't notice a thing. Then Marv added.

"Let it be the one that came first".

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Preview:

An auror passes by him on his way to a pensieve; in the one next to it, an old woman, shaken by grief, pours threads of blue–silver one after another. Someone just disappeared into a third pensieve. White ones, without ornaments, though different in design. Seven... eight... Too many. Goosebumps. There aren't all the corresponding portraits yet, but in front of each pensieve there is a (white) sign with the name of the deceased.

All that white looks great in the reddish wood room, reminiscent of blood.

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Author's Note:

So? Moral? Kids, don't let your own kids alone as you solve your love dramas, serious as those might seem. They could very well meet a psychopath.

Was the scene in italics too confusing, divided as it is?

Do you hate Ginny too much?

What do you think about Harry's conflict?

I just spent 5 hours just translating the chapter, not to speak about the hours I spent writing it. Please, let me know what you thought of the result. Below there's a box for reviews. Imagine that it's a little hole in my heart, and fill it up.


	12. Okuribito

Author's note:

The title corresponds to a Japanese movie I adore and you must watch –if you haven't already.

Here, some characters talk a bit about whether or not God's there. If I am taking a position, it is the opposite of my own. This is fiction of fictions, folks. Characters don't know about this more than we do. But what's a funeral if you don't get to talk about transcendence?

_**Okuribito**_

_That chalk was Umbridge's quill's cousin. I watched it warily. Bad memories. I still prefer to cut my fingers the old way and endure the pain of cuts brushing against the dusty floor. Even if it burns like hell._

_"I'll finish up before you…"_

_"Harry!" she scolded. "We can't race. This is serious. It'll affect us for eternity"._

_It was half act, of course. I saw it in the way the corners of her lips arched._

_We were drawing the alchemic circle with our fresh blood. Pain was part of the magic too. Hermione had explained it to me. I didn't like it. I specially didn't want Hermione holding that chalk that drank from her arteries, even if she didn't mind the tattoo being drawn simultaneously over her left breast._

_On my fist, I read my own scar._

_A wizard went by, folder in hand, taking notes and examining our circle. I could tell him it was perfect. Come on, Hermione had designed it._

_"Who's the lucky one" he asked._

_"Sorry?"_

_The man fixated his gaze –blood-stained eyes– on Hermione, pursing his lips. He obviously didn't like the ceremony._

_"Who are we to sacrifice should this go wrong."_

_Like every other time they had asked, we both jumped at the same time._

_"Me"_

_We gazed at each other with rage, but the man only made a disapproving sound with his tongue and took notes as he left._

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"I'm so sorry"

"She died with honor. We'd all want to go away like that."

Vague, low, respectful whispers. The occasional smile, a psychological defense mechanism facing solemnity and general pressure.

Death is somehow banal, as life.

The line of statutory white cloaks, white gloves, is greeted by the family of the fallen. Harry hates funerals, despite his prolonged contact with death –or perhaps because of it–, he never knew what to say. '¿Next great adventure?' Come on… He still feels the hex from the only time he dared say so to a sister. The deceased have a tendency to understand it better than those left behind. Deep down, Harry himself have come to doubt that time with Dumbledore at King's Cross, it might have been a dream, it has been so long… Happening inside his head might not automatically mean that something isn't real, but it doesn't exclude it, either. What if it was an "endorphin cocktail", as Hermione once suggested? (As if he were to grasp what's an "endorphin")

This time at least no unformulated spell reaches him, and he reaches the room relatively unscathed.

The gloves itch to those who have no habit of wearing them.

Conversations calm down a bit in his presence. Someone looks around, finding Hermione's absence as rare as he does. Half a body. She's with Ron, for today, with makes him nauseous and relieved. He has no idea on how to face her, after the raid and everything. They'll meet inside, of course, but they might not even talk, it's a funeral after all.

'What a coward" he thinks.

An auror walks past him on the way to a pensieve; into another, there's an old lady, shaken by grief, pouring silver-blue threads from her head. Someone just disappeared into a third one. White pensieves, with no décor, though different in design. Seven… eight… Too many. He gets goosebumps. Some portraits haven't still arrived, but in front of each pensieve there's a white label stating the name of the deceased.

Too much white in that blood-colored wood room.

He remembers commissioning his own posthumous pensieve with Hermione. Both very young. Joking, or pretending to, because that's what they expected young ones would do in cases like that. Young ones that would fancy themselves immortals. But they liked to fake that they hadn't fought any dark wizard or seen death in so many of their friends. Even for an afternoon. They fancied faking they had been their age at some point beyond infancy.

"Harry!"

Startled, he looks around, to find a portrait –today wearing all gray, in hair and eyes and even skin color- wearily smiling to him from in the wall. He smiles to her heartily.

"Tonks" he greets.

"Where's your other half?" the ancient auror asks frankly, looking around him.

The wizard blushes, but he's in no condition to answer as if she was talking about Ginny. They both know she isn't.

"With Ron, today. What about Moody?"

"You know how he is. Muggles are too easily unnerved. When they come, the personnel move him to the other room. Aaaa!"

The portrait has just stumbled upon her own armchair. Harry conceals his smile as she mutters a protest, her gaze suddenly darting to the people in the room to see if they noticed anything.

"Dead clumsy to look dignified" she's protesting. "So how's Teddy?"

There's the sad yet happy tone she always uses when talking about her son. So he tells her how the kid does in his training at the WeRD (Werewolf Relationships Department) and that he has a feeling he's about to propose to Victoire, because he's such a nervous wreck these days –in a good way-, though he hasn't breathed a word yet.

And then here they bring the portrait of Christine. She's having problems staying solemn; she never was. Those who met her are concealing laughs. No defense mechanism, this time. Years ago Hermione theorized that it was almost like a conditioned reflex, to laugh in her immediate vicinity. Harry suddenly comprehends the void her absence will leave in the department, how dull it'll be now that there's no chance of Christine coming by, late as usual, faking scare just to make a comedy of it, while knowing perfectly that all bosses are on her pocket, thanks to her charisma.

Everyone turns around looking for her partner, though custom dictates family must be first to approach, and there's her husband, first row. Or who used to be her husband. She's dead, after all.

"Where's Sam" someone whispers, nearby.

Samuel is tall, skin almost blue –it's so black-, powerful shoulders and what Hermione has described as the gentlest eyes she has ever seen. The only auror they know that refuses to kill. The only objector of conscience in the department. When he heard of his Christine's fate, everyone heard his screams, the insults, the denial of everything he has ever believed. Ironic, since he spent his life trying to convert Christine, increasingly afraid of going to heaven without her. Hermione would have wondered if, by rejecting his god, he was seeking to go to the same hades he's certain Chris went to.

It'd be impossible, if he were here, to not notice his presence. He's not in the room.

So Chris thanks her husband for everything that involved sharing her life, and her jokes make everyone laugh uncertainly, not meaning to offend. Harry notices the man's relief (muggle, he thinks) as he leaves. With her children the pain is bigger and the jokes, funnier. It's the only way she can still caress them. The youngest one starts crying, and pensieves around tremble, maybe it's the oldest one the one casting accidental magic; a neutralizing shield is cast over them. Chris' mother Catherine, approaches, cheeks and skin itself, dry and pale and stained like old parchment; she's in a sort of stupor. Chris' eyes go over the room.

And they suddenly lighten. That's how everyone else know Sam arrived. By his magic, Harry knows he has been sedated.

Gazes cross.

"Samuel" the portrait breathes.

Everyone else holds their breath, and silence reigns, endless. The portrait's eyes have every quality of the eternal.

"You know" she says at last.

The black-skinned auror nods once, then again, then in quickening, jerky succession, teeth clenched. Mute tears cross his cheeks. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Harry wonders if he was silenced, too.

Harry doubts he'll survive the night, despite measures taken to protect him from himself.

Not taking his eyes off Sam's trembling shoulders, Harry senses the presence of his own partner, and he no longer seem to have reason enough to flee her. For today.

He doesn't have to look to find her. A corner of the room is filled with books (histories, biographies of aurors whose portraits adorn the walls). Even if he didn't feel her, he'd find her always next to the books. Indeed, she's there, sitting on the floor, hands on her thighs and eyes on the ceiling, despite the abundance of cozy armchairs. She's almost invisible there.

He sits by her side.

"Harry, did you know?" Hermione asks. "I used to think that, if God existed, he must be a writer."

Harry stares at the ciling too, the image of Sam and Chris engraved in his retina. No surprise there. How else would Hermione imagine someone theoretically good and almighty?

"And I truly admired him" she adds. "I mean, if he exists, the he's the one who has created all this" and her arm waves, gesture encompassing the decorative plant in a corner, the sunlight coming from the window and a book levitating from one shelf to another, ordering itself.

"But God's not the writer" Luna intervenes.

They both turn to her. She looks rare in the white outfit, eyes wide open, as if to convey something without anyone else knowing.

"There's a God, and there's a Writer. They are not the same. There are also sub-writers. Each plays in the world the other has created. Pretty funny, if you ask.

"A bit crowded, the office" Hermione mutters, skeptical.

Luna ignores her, grabbing a book and sliding away in the same casual movement. Harry doesn't miss the irony: they both agree on something for once, yet still differ in specificities.

Hermione laughs.

"Imagine, someone somewhere, in short and slippers, writing great and small miracles and turns of events with the same ease… binding them all in a novel: "Hermione Granger and the Magical Library"

The auror turns to her, glasses bending as their side make contact with the wall. The muscles of his cheeks tense in a smile that's barely there. He imagines a big volume bound in dragon skin. (He can't imagine a book whose title starts with that name, being thin.) Hermione's eyes have stars, and her hair, as rogue as usual, falls before her ears. She's stunning…

"When I was a teenager, I liked the idea"

"Not anymore?"

… even frowning, as she's now.

"Sometimes I feel like a puppet"

And the silence becomes so heavy that Harry dares theorize:

"It'd be a given, right? If you were a character…

"Of course not" she protests vehemently; fierce eyes meet those of the man, and it is perhaps his gaze what makes her look down, wringing her hands. "'Person' was first the way they called the theater masks. In itself, the term does not imply independent life, outside the pages of a book. Real or imaginary, you are a person."

Harry imagines a bunch of grieving souls going through the library, touching books or talking to each other. He shakes his head. Only Hermione would feel that way towards someone who is nothing but ink on paper. The vehemence in her voice has not diminished one iota as she elaborates:

"Characters have attitudes, tendencies. Personality. The writer owes them respect. He owes them those sleepless nights, thinking about how to take them where he wants the argument to go. He owes them changing the argument if he doesn't get them to go there. You can't write Romeo and Juliet, and make Romeo marry Rosalina."

She still frowns, frustrated with reality itself for being incomprehensible. Harry thinks that Hermione, if she were a character, would give the writer many headaches; she's have rebelled and revealed herself, no doubt, despite the wishes of the "master." Surely she would have managed to show her own, even if she was finally subjected to the unappealable power of the ink. He sees her stretch her neck, rest her head on the wall. He thinks about reaching out and holding her hand. He doesn't dare. The sorceress, in all of her personality, looks like one of those characters of ghostly transparency she has evoked in her partner's mind.

"Harry" an auror interrupts, gazing from one to the other, uncertain. "Can you help bringing Melody's portrait?"

The disruption irritates him, and he inches towards his partner, who has also moved a bit closer. But he can't say no. Taking personal, physical care of details as this one, is the way of living aurors to pay their respect, much like he did when burying Dobby with his own hands. And he remembers Melody –far too young, far too sweet-. So he stands and takes the parchment meant to guide him in the far too crowded warehouse.

It's dark and dusty. There are not many portraits left, it seems, yet it's hard to finds anything. Harder, to look into each portrait's eyes. Compare, locate, move forward. The first words Melody's addresses are:

"It didn't take long for me to die"

"I'm sorry."

"No" she shakes her head; blond doll curls sway around her face. "I guess it was better that way. I saw less blood. I liked being auror, but I never liked the blood."

"It was fast."

"Untrue." Harry's eyes widen, but she smiles merrily. "These portraits were designed to update memories until the very moment of death. Recent discovery, very useful for espionage. In fact, Albert is around there" she signals. "Up to minutes ago, he was still updating. I'm afraid it's not good news."

Rage fills Harry as he looks to the door, suddenly in an urge to go ask Luna about the rescue team they obviously should have set.

"Don't" she advices, pointing out bitterly: "You didn't have personnel to rescue him. I believe Luna wasn't informed. I'm sorry I even told you."

"Isabel…"

"Died first."

The exact state of Albert's portrait, he doesn't want to know. He shouldn't be mourning his mentors all over again. His mind cringes from the very concept, weary of so much death.

"They are better this way, Harry" the dead girl consoles him. "Let it go."

Two portraits beyond Melody, there's Hermione's own portrait. She's magnificent, in that beige tunic that stands out over the red armchair. Reading, of course. As he looks, his own image joins her, coming from the next frame, and hers looks up and smiles at him. The canvas Harry puts two fingers on his partner's forehead and caresses her cheek, and suddenly kisses her on the lips. Harry looks back at Melody, shock and a question in his eyes.

"What do you want?" she says, merrily again. "Marriage is until death do you part, and these portraits are designed for after death. Technically, only the Bond is valid here."

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Advance:

"That's not yours to decide, 'Mia" the girl answered.

"I'm worried about you… both of you. He is old enough to be your father, Duham…"

"That's none of your business…"

"… and a widow" Hermione continued, raising her voice. "And I don't know about whom I'm more concerned: you, being a substitute for some other woman…"

"He is as old as you are, and I'm already an adult!"

"… or him. You can't possibly understand the depth of the injuries you could cause to him only by being immature…!"

"That's enough!"

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Author's note: I adored writing this chapter, though I'm aware it's slow.

Did you like white for the funeral? (I was thinking of firefighters, of the "present weapons" with white gloves, hence the theme color). Tonks' presence? What about the portraits, eh?

What did you think about the writer and the characters? Both Luna and Hermione have come, each in their own way, to the conclusion that we all know true. And like Rowlings, I put my words in Hermione's mouth.

*which she did, by showing her preference for Harry even if Rowlings decided to arrange her marriage to Ron anyway ;)


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